av A.M. Ween.

As I prowl through the thick undergrowth, I inadvertently detect a small fleeting movement in my upper left vision, and I freeze, mid-step. Without making any sudden motions, I strain my neck and eyes to see what it is, but I can't see anything in the deep, ever-changing dappled shades, made of light and dark jungle-greenery. I'm just about to continue my carefree stroll along the jungle floor when I hear something over the high-pitched buzz of insects. My ears prick, detecting the faint sound of carefully muffled movement, like someone is trying hard not to be heard. My head turns, as of its own accord, and my ears twitch in search of the sound.

There is a small rise in the terrain between me and the source of that sound. The rise may be three times as tall as I am, but a short pause and a pounce brings me up and over the obstacle, and I hit ground without making any noise. I'm not bragging, stealth is my