Sitting. Waiting. Like a tiger. Ready. To pounce in an instant. But waiting. For the right moment.
No. The time has not come. Not yet. Still waiting. Not a breeze. Not a sound. Not even the rustle of leaves, as you inch closer.
Closer to the situation at hand. Close enough to smell the fear. Close enough to strike!
You can feel every sinew, ready to snap! Every whisker on your visage stands to attention. The moment is almost here. You can taste the electricity in the air!
Suddenly, your quarry looks up!!! It feels something is amiss. You want to recoil in fear. Every fibre of your being wants to slink away, slipping back into the shadows. But you dare not move a muscle. Your prey is aware of you. Now, it seeks you out in the darkness. You smell fear, but it is your own! Hush... What strangeness is this? The hunter is now the hunted. How fortune favors the changing winds.
Trapped! No escape.
Sitting. Waiting. In fear. Waiting for the danger to pass you by. Not a sound. Not even a breath, lest it be your last. The time has not come. Not yet. But the end, the end is nigh...