Big Salmon Lake roses

The land would have been beautiful were it not for the plague that had struck there. The rangy frame of the golden male seemed to traverse with care. His matching gaze sought to find any life that may have belonged there. The scent of wolves was on the wind but how could they survive in such desolation? Even he had turned thin in his travels, but surely those living in those wilds were skin and skeleton. He turned his head to the water and frowned. Even the ripples on the surface spoke of famine. Breathing deep, there was the faintest scent of salt from the distant sea and faded passing of other wolves. A startling lack of prey. 

Sawyer drew himself toward the waters edge and allowed the cold liquid to meet his paws and soak to his ankles. The breeze caught his pelt and breathed the promise of rain. The golden dog hoped that it would allow for the green to return to the surrounding wild. He wondered how many had died at the fault of that tragedy. The loss of the woods.