Wapun Meadow a hellish glow of hot orange

he had followed the wolf wordlessly, yet when she stole into the thick of pack territory he slipped off and made for the meadow. around him tired and worn out snow still clung to the grey-colored earth. overhead the sound of shrill goshawk cries.

he picked his way through snowcrusted basins, guided by the scent of water. the territory rose and fell and then spat out in the center of it a frozen but active creek with its bank rimed in translucent sheets of ice. the path was worn down by pronghorn tracks and the banks bore splintered sinks where their hooves had punctured the ice and their soft muzzles had drank deep of the black water within.

he was alone as he stood on the bank. he lowered his muzzle and lapped at the icy water as the wind whipped shrilly around him.