The Beast!

Flying frozen valleys far from haunts of men, scuttling over scree-slopes, scrawny Ptarmigan, weather-beaten, weary, white with tufted feet, not a nook of shelter, not a shred to eat. Hawk is up there hunting, hungry wolf of birds: pumps his eager pinions, preys on flocks and herds, watches, black and baleful, browsing Lamb below scratching food with frozen forefeet from the snow. Ptarmigan comes trembling to taste what Lamb has found, scurries toward the scanty scraped-up patch of ground, perches pale and weary, pecks up scraps of food, crumbs that Lamb uncovered, clucks with gratitude. Hawk alert with hunger hangs there in the sky, loops in lethal circles like a bottle fly. Hungry bird is heedless. Hawk has sighted prey. Wan and weary snowfowl --- will she get away? Hawk intent on hunting hurtles down the sky. Ptarmigan in terror tries at last to fly: like a streak of lightning leaves the heights of snow, seeking sanctuary somewhere down below. God and gracious fortune guide her as she flies in an open window --- otherwise she dies. Hawk is screaming harshly. Hound leaps up to snap. Ptarmigan sinks trustful, tired in Housewife's lap. Good and gracious Lady grabs the little bird, nods, then wrings its naked neck without a word, promptly plucks and guts it, pops it in a pot eyes alight and eager --- eats it on the spot.