The big cats, their fur matted by mud and thick blood, claws sunk into woven, dying plant matter, spotted with black ants. Under a new moon, their eyeballs lick the ink night. What proceeds within are countless calculations for distance and space and risk and hunger based on the scent of the nearby small and dying. Furred knuckles grind downward past rough pad and into a cold soft that dries in the sand beneath everything where roots can't press through.
A flash of movement in the jungle and they're gone - a clock's work, an end and some change.
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