In every wilderness be life.
Washed with gorse and heather's touch.
Hiding 'neath scratchy patches.
Avoiding winter's vile chill.
Mini-beasts of winter feast,
They're fighting for survival.
Wilderness living.
A bird flies high,
Scaling from the firmament with  sharp open eyes.
Very keen.
The poorly concealed creature dies.
(C) LIVVI