I live in fear of the deers. Walking around in the night air silver echoes in a forest. They're the ones with a voice; a voice that can change the direction of wind. But I know where to find one.
. ........ .. ..... . . . . . .
I hear it. And it murmurs of unknown trials. I know it's broken wandering, unsung and moaning in the distance. No name, no one else there; slowly succumbing to some dementia of the soul. Powerful, but broken like a falling building.
I peer from the trees on the hill high up on the hill, hidden staring down at the silver beast. It walks steadily, but slowly through the valley an old so