Dear Friend,
My name is Tungst. For as long as I can remember
I've been alone. Skulking in the penumbra
of my jungle world, living on kills and scraps
of cooked moss. Should my concentration lapse
just for an instant, I'd be some monster's dinner.
So it doesn't. Keen-eyed, curved trunk-skinner
in my teeth, I climb the trees and sheer rock
to rest, and survey, and to keep a sharp look-
out for flying rafts, the ones I dream about,
which come from the sky, bringing death and drought
and devastation to the worlds they set upon.
They'll come, one day. That's what I'm counting on.
Write back soon,
Tungst
