fighting dreams of trickster crow

Fog rolls in or is it my inner eyelid sliding across?

Seagulls carrying squid in their bills, home delivery of squab drop inches short of my jaw

but the caw and carrying on of seagulls does the job of snapping my brain stem alert to see the room clearly.

Sun soaking fur and blue sky nothingness. Vision springs back making the world brighter as if it has been a screen door blown open by the wind

wind ruffling my fur, carrying seagulls, the ache in my gut makes me purr and feel a heat greater than the wood stove I used to bake beside, langour hangs me a nearly skinned fur sunk into the woodwork of the window’s heat

my eyes are as heavy as baseballs. I find myself nodding back to sleep.

Speckled seagulls teenage cries as they loop and find their nimbleness of skies segues to dreams of trickster crow. He teases my tail that I flick and flick, squint warning but he is all play as I take a swing at his scaly black legs, note that his claws longer than mine, and he laughs a warble of his teethless throat and we suddenly float.

I’m caught and flying off under his insulating feathers of steaming breast yet feel no unrest, knawing a meal from between his hollow ribs, only peripherally aware of the shine of his nails sinking past nape of fur as mother’s teeth, his claws hooking deep around the vertibrae, my mouth full of his blood, his beak waiting for my red in his good time.

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