I wrote this a while ago, but I think I might keep going with it.
The beast awakens from her slumber.
Deep breathing, and icy cold eyes peeking from the dark, warm cave.
She can hear the other animals frolicking around like it's summer time, but it's not summer time.
They are different breeds, so they naturally don't understand her sleep patterns, but it's ok because she doesn't understand theirs.
She's not looking for change, just acceptance.
Ready to be in quiet. Ready for complete peace, dreaming of the meal she had slaughtered the night before.
But her readiness can not compete with the lively pace at which the earth is spinning today.
At which the excited dogs are singing to each other in their hunger.
She can not escape. She can not communicate. Because they are oblivious.
They remind her continually, "it's day time, it's day time, it's day time."
And she's waiting for the sun to go back down. She likes to roam, and to quietly take in the world when the leaves are settled and conflict in the busy lives of the local frogs and rodents has decided to go to bed.
Survival of the fittest at it's prime.
The moon at night is brighter, and her shadow darker.
The anticipation of finding something beautiful in the night never ends, and she always finds something beautiful.
Nature tells her that she's safe, she doesn't have to worry or doubt. She doesn't have to be happy or sad. She doesn't have to be wrong or right. Nervous or confident. In love, or out of love.
She returns to her cave in the dawn of her adventures.
There, she lay.
There, she is but a figment of every Morning's imagination.