Five means to meet my prey:
Sight.
Not my finest sense, but few match my eyes in the pitch black of a nightime jungle canopy. The slightest trace of light is all I need to make out my quarry. In spite of their vain efforts at camaflage!
Hearing.
The faintest crack of a distant twig. The nervous shift of a limb. Shallow breathing. Racing hearts. Any sound will reach my well-tuned ears.
Smell.
Terror-drenched sweat carried in dank humidity or a sporadic breeze. Odor from their marking of their own territory. The stench of the remains of their own feeding. All olfactory aphrodisiacs to me!
Touch.
The final stalk. A burst of furious speed. Collision! The locking of my jaw on my prey’s corotted artery. The embrace with my flailing yet futile meal-to-be. The piercing of my fangs into warm, gamey flesh.
Taste.
Enough to tell whether my prey will safely feed me or sicken me. I have no need for a gourmet palate!
Five means. All this master predator ever needs.
mule deer carcass
a striped tail disappears
in the overgrowth
for Real Toads’ย A list with a twist, imagined by Isadora Gruye
#GloPoWriMo2018 / #NaPoWriMo2018ย 26/30
Frank J. Tassone 
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