A silhouette hunts with his dog on the face of December; taunt between the seasoned frame.

Hills lay tight against each other, like powdered nude breasts. They slowly rise and fall with each dry breath on this brisk, barren day.

His shady figure moves across a talc dusted scape of simple blue and tans. A blur of dark umber races towards the far frame; a large buck shooting across the land like a dull star.

A black bolt races up a slope after the brown shadow; the hunter’s black lab giving chase. The man calls out to his wet companion “Regalia”! His voice ruffling the late paper-thin noon, like shivers across onion skin.

The hunter stands atop a ridge, almost high enough to grasp whatever frame you’re reading this in. Below he sees a thready-green wash of color, a secret oasis he or Regalia haven’t yet discovered.

He spies Regalia, tripping and dipping across the land, driven on only by the dying scent of this day’s drying hours. The hunter follows her over the frame, like a drop of life running uphill.