Across the vacant Amazonian sky a lonely bird flies with little effort. Below him a lush forest is casted across the earth. Its dense and dark colors range across the color chart the bird knows the forest is filled with many wonders, not all are good either. He calls this place his home, his kingdom. The high canopies drape down and cast a shield over the silent floor. He descends and rests his feet upon a limber branch that only presents a few flowers. He picked the branch because of the absence of danger. It’s too high for the predators with 4 legs, and it’s too low for the spiders and snakes that are much higher. He rustles his vibrant feathers that reflect off the blazing sun. The colors dance among his body like wild fireworks on the fourth of July. The nearly florescent colors seem to melt his body with his surroundings.

His home is quiet, for now the sun is still high in the sky; he knows that it is even more dangerous when the eye of nature blinks, and casts her shadowy blanket of darkness across the sky. He ponders why everything is so reserved and so speechless. The distant whistles of a neighboring bird is the only thing calling. The monkey’s that bellow and quake the earth are also muted and silent. The day seemed slow because of this. When he looks around the small bird spots a tangerine tree. He picks a small lonely one that was just right for the picking. He knows this because it is wet with dew, and the color is the same as the morning sun. No obstructions are visible; he snatches it with his beak and returns to his throne. The weight of the tropical fruit is almost too great for this young male it droops his head. The beats of his wings are loud, and heavy. He safely lowers the treasure into a forked part of the flexible twig. He uses his sharp tool like beak to pierce the tough skin, juices pour from it. Bits and pieces fall to the floor and he skillfully shreds the remaining armor that the fruit beholds.

He feasts; the ripe soft interior is easy to pry off. He sucks down the filling matter in great quantities. Too tired to move, he sits and watches the sunset. The orange and pink clouds sweep across the sky. He shuts his eyes and basks in the last moments of sun light. When he raises his lids the sun is gone and it has been replaced with roaring bellowing clouds. The clouds roll and crack as they move along the acres and acres of his home. Drops of water begin to sob from the heavens crashing threw his green rooftop and splashing on his wings. All he can do is get close to the tree and wait. The clashing of elements sends a bolt of yellow light downward. It rocks the trees sending leaves flying through the air like a fleet of insects spiraling together. Fear finally gives in to the poor bird; he clasps the branch as tight as he can to prevent him to being pulled into a spiral of certain death. He notices something from the corner of his eye. A small brown figure makes his way across the grassy meadow not too far from the tree. Yet it’s not running but walking. The beast simply lollygags across, does the shaking earth not stir him, make him flee and run in terror? He takes a closer look; it’s a small brown animal not larger than one foot at the shoulder, but tusks bigger than the bird. It’s a boar; he had always taken a boar as a coward. But it’s grazing amongst the grass roots, and spoors. The rain still pegs him and soaks him to the core. But the bird still watches the creature in amazement. Sure he has seen dozens of boars and other creatures do the same, but something about this one fascinates him.

The sound of brush being lightly pushed aside catches the bird’s ear. He franticly scans the forest for danger. He can’t focus for its too dark around him. Again a twig snaps but the boar does nothing. His heart begins to beat through his ears. His chest begins to ache with fear. But he still can’t find the perpetrator creating the sounds. The leaves drape down to cover the forest floor so only the clearing where the boar grazes is visible. The rain, pouring evermore drenches the environment disturbing the peaceful undergrowth hazing the air with a white blanket of fog from the earth cooling. He notices a slight figure out of place. The sleek black line, apparent to him because it’s blacker than the darkness surrounding it slinks around with very little lateral movement. He tunes out the rain and the beat of his heart. He knows all is not well; he needs to identify the threat. The darkness becomes ever darker, he is running out of time before all hope is lost. He begins to look at a thornroot bush that seems to be suspicious. The leaves and other extremities are completely motionless but his instincts tell him there is something wrong with it. Squinting he peers into the shrubbery, there! The eyes the yellow and black crescents pierce him as they gaze into the tree. The facial features are distinct, covered in black besides those eyes, and the blaring white teeth it bears. The grey whiskers, long as mangrove branches, protrude from his face. His black nose twitches from the irritation of rain and leaves. And the un-describable pant, releasing fear when he takes a breath. Raveling his wondrous white swords under his lips which drip with saliva. The beast slowly slinks, every step determining if he will eat or not. He wanted to release a yell to warn the boar to run, run for its life. But he knew the boar would not hear him, or even if he did, think twice about a squawking bird.

The king of the land becomes part of the Amazonian forest floor. Mixing with the undergrowth colors of brown and green, he comes to the edge of the meadow where the boar still grazes. Those eyes are all he can look at, never blinking, fixed on what they set of out for. The king then exposes his second weapon; they emerged silently from plump paws. They cut into the ground like a knife in hot butter. The fierce inch long blades tear through anything the forest can offer.

He then leans back on his rear strong legs, ready. The king throws himself forward as flash of yellow light fills the air and shatters the silence with a boom and crack that shakes the earth. The squeal released from the boar is deafening, it echoes across the landscape filling the caverns, and the canopies. Again it’s quiet; he looks across the darkness adjusting his eyes. There is nothing just the white cloud of fog still rising from his home, both beasts are gone. The only thing left is a blood stain, stretched across the grassroots that seem to resemble the word KING.