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’ A list with a twist, imagined by Isadora Gruye

#GloPoWriMo2018 / #NaPoWriMo2018  26/30