To the Yellow Bull.

You and I, Yellow Bull, are filled with rage but you keep yours under better stay than I. Ironic. With a misplaced whisper my anger bounds out and snaps for the throat. It wants to win at any cost and I have no leash to keep it back, only will, and that counts for little when warm blood fills the air. But there is the difference; I hunt and you protect. I am a predator but you are no prey. Maybe that is why we get on so well? I have no want or need to attack you and you don't want or need to attack anything. But we are both filled with fury at injustice, even though I can be very unjust. Another irony. With gingered cats and rag dolls gone I have nothing to play with so maybe now I can progress. On to what, though? If I run fast enough I may be able to make the watery gap west before I sink. I can't see that land across the stormy sea, but I can smell it. Only doom awaits me in these forests. I can fight off anything they throw at me but I will not escape unharmed. I already have scars and bloody fur. My pelt has lost it's sheen as my will for this place grows weaker by the day and the clouds block the sight of the moon, my only escape from this reality. I want to know where you are, Yellow Bull. What mountain do you roam? I will find you and we can talk again. When the Fox and the Rabbit wed we may meet, and if we do? I will be happy. And you and I, Yellow Bull, can roam again together if only for a short time.

-R