* * * *

T H E S T R A L S

Better Off Alone.




He sits, back against a tree, knees brought to his chest, arms cradling them tightly. A rain drop caresses his cheek tenderly. More follow suit, and within a minute, he is soaked from the storm. His jet-black mane sticks to his face; the rain blurs his vision, and he can’t tell if he’s crying.

Comfort is reached by him nuzzling his head closer to his arms.

Movement. The sound of broken leaves and twigs grabs his attention. He lifts his head, hazel eyes trying to make out the dark creature. It nods to its companion.

He’s no longer alone.