The beast in fur is in the shadows, testing the light for truth. He wonders if his hands are ludicrous, as they sift through the soil, flake the rotting wood, startle the beetles into movement. He relies on his primeval instincts; he is a shiver looking for a spine to run up. The moon is a bodged circle of light above the trees. Nothing is advantaged beneath it.
There is something radiant about the beast tonight, a salt, or mineral glow, from crashing seas to wild moors: something tremendous, like the wild kiss of a bride.
He is looking for her, drawing her towards him with some novel magic. He senses her resistance, her tantrums, screams and shouts, as he conjures her up. She is mustard on his tongue, brandy in his blood. She is a lost thing biding her time for being found: the moment of her exposure is unravelling. Soon he will offer her his fierce kiss.
