Buki

Most of the time you have to sit out all night to see the hyenas.  They come under flickering starlight and waning moon, always under the pretense of illusion.  In the small hours of morning, everything that murmurs on the horizon seems to be illusion.  I always have to rub a few blades of grass between my fingers to make sure I am not dreaming.  Surely this insomnia is unhealthy, and hyenas cannot be good companions when one cannot sleep for nights unending.  In the morning I walk to the heavy paw prints in the salted mud, just to convince myself it was all real.  Here they are now, circling, their burning eyes and charred pelts reeking of hunger and shadows.  One of these mornings…

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