Lunarcrossed
Or the moon even though it now slumbers?
So, I walk, losing track of time, as day fades towards dusk and the fireflies begin to come out to paint the sky. My phone buzzes in my pocket but I ignore it with an obsessive need to follow the invisible thread to where it ends or perhaps, begins. And then I catch a scent in the air. The rogue we are hunting has passed this way and not so long ago. And he was not alone, the wind also holds the smell of rain and roses, and jasmine and sandalwood, the Cross sisters. Bale’s musk is of sandalwood and grass, traces of which his cub inherited, just as I know I smell of my father’s cedar along with blood oranges. Every wolf has a distinct odor, much in th
Bab Populer