As I sit here on the hariless-tom scented computer bag, I admire the way my own eyes flash and glow in the window’s reflection as they catch the headlights.
My thoughts are resting koi slow with glittering catching ehre and there.
I contemplate my last inter-dimensional trip from which I just returned. I visited something you could comprehend as olifactory chameleons. They are a creature gifted with the ability to shift the size of their scent-field, and like a cowbird, mimic other scents. They can put on the musk of a tom, or by turn of will, smell like fresh blood, direct the smell to lure, for amusement or lunch, some naive creature who thinks nothing of its grey shape. Until you are trained to understand the gifts of this creature we call huras, it is easy to be deceived. The huras can be any gender, any branch of creature that communicates chemically. It can control the amount of release to keep proportional to the production it would immitate.
I lunar spent hours just appreciating (from a distance) how huras can operate. Even sensing the wave of scent settling to replace the last impression it made in advance of another creature’s approach and knowing it was cloaked in with the scent of the shadowed sedge yet even still to make out its distinct olifactory outline was a pleasant trick to play on my own brain. It’s a night for transformation.