The Rituals of Nature

Flashes of orange and red, crunching of leaves

I scurry, and weave.

High above, a shadow I wish was not near.

I know my fate is clear.

Perhaps I can hide,

a thought fleeting as the falling snow.

I look up, breathing through my nose.

Finally, the shadow is gone, and I take a breath.

The hairs standing up on the back of my neck.

Too late, I should have checked.

Darkness closing in.