Silver Creek moon dust in your lungs

A distant peal of thunder seemed to shake her through until her very fur stood on end, the electricity charging. The tempest simmered nearer. Yet as she turned to catch a vain and habitual glimpse of the sky, a movement caught in her periphery. A lucid pull of the shadows. The glint of fallen stars. Her fur stood on end, and not merely from the spark of the lightning storm. She drew herself to a sharp and sudden halt and snapped herself to face him.

If not for his eyes - molten as the sun, and watchful as the stars - the shadows would have eclipsed the stranger. But she could see his eyes, watching her, and from this she discerned the vaguest face until her eyes adjusted and pulled the shape of his body from the shadows. She sucked in the sharpest breath. Moonlight brought the scattered light along his back to glint like stars in the inkblot sky, as if he loomed as an extension of the sky itself. The pulse of the gales whisked through his feathered fur, and she wondered if strand by strand the storm would take him, to dissipate and reconstruct him worlds away, without the need to raise a paw or strike the ground below.

She flared her nostrils to catch a scent of him, but the wind cut strong along her back to gust toward the stranger instead, affording her nothing but what her eyes could see. Her brow furrowed and her own gaze glinted sharp in question, still not certain if the stranger was a wolf, a spectre, or the stars made manifest themselves.