nary a rut

If not in the heights of the mountains he prowls up there with the bears and the squirrels and owls where thin winds blow strongly and fire’s a threat then down to the flatlands and cities he’ll get. A good steed beneath him and food in his gut leaving not a wrapper and nary a rut, the smog-sled gets whirring and miles fly by while above does turn that bright star in its sky. The tools for the camping lie hidden beyond the gate where jet flight its first real tests won down here in the city though La Cieg and 3rd there’s steel and stone plenty but not many birds.

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