From Chapter 7 of The Floating Harbour

The hunter morphs into the watcher, sat there up upon the sill, as the ears diverge to better sweep the aural landscape, with the tapping of the twitching tail, its tip over the edge, beating faintly every time it hits the stone; making waves each time it sweeps against the sky.

Follow now the ripples in the air.
Pick a pathway as they’re shattered on the wind.
 
One careens into
the shouting out of wares and prices.
One emerges on
the far side of a whirlpool, impact-born.
 
Two are tangled
in a mass of muttered words and uttered phrases.
Still more are
lifted to escape the sonic storm.

 

   What happens next?
The hunter reappears, sprung by reflex as the shop door moves, guided by its hinges, loosing out unto the street a flurry, flitting through the muddied heels, and leaps and lands and launches to balletic sprinting, matching twists and torques and turns, and, lastly, lunges for the trailing tail that takes it only ever onward into bedlam and about the city’s fully-laden, fraught with frenzy, arch-suspended street, and they tumble, ‘twined together, passing hoof and boot and wheel, to fall within the crowd and out of written view.
I pass the offshoots of the mass of people. I’ve approached the bridge and stand, and stand intrigued, repulsed, enticed, on the verge of venturing, ceding control and passing into the unknown.
Chaos to get into.
The tattered tethers of the known to leave behind.
 

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