fish!

The way his stomach is caught in a fuel of desperation, for the food that he can smell in its moments. (The elk, the hog, the very berry bushes that have once held food upon the summer months.) It’s an honest thing, how the transparent touch of the spring and summer. The warmth that crosses into the wet soil and springs growth, that same warmth that promotes growth to the lands. The trees that will bloom with buds, the flowers that are suddenly bright and ever-lasting in a meadow of the heavens. (He is sure to find one here, just as there was a garden of Gaia herself at his home.) He thinks of it now, how that garden was loose in its frenzy. How healers, how Miya had come from great lands to spot an eye on a bloom that he prays would help her mother. He had always spoke to her in her simple pickings, for her cleansing of weeds in the rows of gardens for her payment of taking such a white bloom. In her time there he had learned various things, of the herbs that were placed within soil and mastered for their growth. The various collections he had grown to enjoy, to learn, to record and keep a collection within his own fair sat den. The idea was of a duel to his father, when he had rather pick flowers then spar with the fellow neighbor boys and feel his skin tear under their touch. 

A deep moment, his eyes that suddenly trace the distance shore and for a hushed moment he is found with that depth in his stomach once more. The growling, the pit of it all that is demanding to bed fed as if a child was screaming for a touch of food. To be nurse and cradled and for a moment as his eyes trace, his body is struck with movement and the cold salt that is whipped into his fibers as if he is simply to roll in it. How it is, without doubt an unreasonable thing. For how he missed to be burnt under the summer sun and feel how the water is not freezing but of relief, as the cold would work his burnt skin as if an Aloe Vera. The small things, perhaps, that the ginger boy missed. (The sun wasn’t all that small, in the long scheme of things)
 
His toes are a work of squishing the sand within them, how the cold water is suddenly burning his legs just as the sun may do but oh this is far worse. The way his awaited eyes are a match for the sea , for the fish that hover in gentle pools that are dug and played by the demanding prayer of high tide and for them, he is after. For them, the pieties cutlery of aquatic divinity. Sea food he had not had since but a child, (and oh had he hated it then, how a child refuses broccoli but he is that of the creatures of the sea) It is now then, how his jaws are suddenly encased into the water. His paws that are laced in his pounce. The splashing of water and the sudden jerking of his head that is fought with that six inch fish that hung between his jaws as a prize as his teeth cradle the scales in a movement. How his tongue glides over the scales, how natures seasoning is slid over it like a prime touch of a chest and it is that in the moment does he take it from the water and settle among the sandy beach for a feast.