Rooted,
She looks beyond the clearing.
Waiting,
For
It is coming, it is coming.

She listens to the silence.
Straining
Waiting
For she knows
It is coming, it is coming

A whistle.
A whistle?
A whistle in the wind
Building
And building
Not a whistle anymore.
But she stands her ground
For
It is coming, it is coming

The gale tries to sway her
This way and that.
A deafening screech,
Forcing her to listen
But she is rooted
Still erect
For
It is coming, it is coming

The wind passes
Defeated
But not she
For she is waiting
It is coming, it is coming

A rumble.
A low, low rumbling
Then, light.
A fatal flash
But she stands tall
For she knows
It is coming, it is coming

Thunder threatens
Lightening leers
Rain falls heavy
She buckles
But not too much
For
It is coming, it is coming

All is quiet again
A flinching
No
She must stand firm
For she knows.
She knows
It is coming, it is coming

She sees his mane first
His growl he brings later
Staring
Cold
Menacing
She falters
But only for a second
For
It is coming, it is coming

A roar
A swipe
Claw on flesh
Claw through flesh
Blood on ground
But she does not scream
She does not cry
The pain within
It is coming, it is coming

Desperate
No
She must be strong
She is alone
Standing her ground
For
It is coming, it is coming

Seconds
To minutes
To hours
To days
Silence
Darkness
In the clearing, there is nothing
Nothing comes.
She looks beyond the clearing.
Is it coming? Is it coming?