MoP, Day 29

the leaves rustle treacherously
he slides lower and deeper into the ground
he freezes; only his eyelashes
quiver with the breeze.

through the branches he can see him
and his fingers reach
feather light
for the dagger at his belt

a bark of laughter from the blade’s intended
a bird takes flight, noisy and abrupt
and our heroic assassin flattens himself
against the forest floor
and prays for deliverance

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