Glo/NaPoWriMo: we challenge you today to draft a prose poem in the form/style of a postcard.
Postcard? Did somebody say postcard? Thanks to the annual August Postcard Poem fest, I've got scores of postcard pix, give me a minute, ...
What the Wolf Thought
There I was, minding my own, shaded by dappled light filtered by cedars, sound of my steps inaudible on the pine needle cushion beneath my feet, the wind carrying such delicious scents to my nose—remains of a coyote kill behind the rock I used to stand on, a rabbit's lair nearby. That same wind ruffled my coat, made my ears stand at attention, and suddenly there it was, small humankind covered in something so bright it hurt my eyes, coming towards me. In front of it was a basket made of forest things, I could smell them. We drew closer to each other, now I noticed a scent like that of a ferret just before I pounce, or a deer that shrieks as I close in. I wasn't going to hurt it. Ancient wisdom passed down from my ancestors tells me it's too skinny to make a decent meal, but I was curious about the contents of its basket. Next thing I know I, the hunter, am being stalked for the kill. I lose my rightful place in the forest. Something about its forebears, an ancient in one of those dens humankind likes. Now I'm to be executed. Everyone thinks I'm to blame.
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