Stavanger Bay at tara in this fateful hour

[table][tr][td valign=center] [/td][td]

The joy in Doe’s eyes was worth the indecision Szymon felt. Encouraged by the lash of her tail and her quicksilver body darting in and then away, he moved with her — a beat behind, perhaps, like a dancer who isn’t quite sure whether he is performing the steps correctly, but he was doing his best. She spun in the air like a leaf on the wind and he merely watched her until she landed, but before he could really register that she was not a leaf but merely a creature of the earth, she was away again. Her paws, he felt, were hollow-boned like a sparrow’s — and he couldn’t let her fly away. He wouldn’t.

She bowed before him, slapping the ground again, and Szymon’s lip curled as a playful growl rumbled like the crash of waves upon the shore as his own tail lashed the air. His lean haunches bunched beneath him as he leapt forward, snapping teasingly in her general direction — but he was pulling his punches even then, aiming at air. If he touched her, perhaps she would disappear. He felt there was something about the little wolf despite her obvious resilience and desire to play that was fragile and meant to be kept separate from the likes of his clumsy, worthless self.

Darting after her upon paws that were fleet and more than accustomed to the rigors of sprinting on deep sand, Szymon chased the sparrow with a veneer of clumsy protectiveness blunting the severity of his lunges and feints. I like you, the thought came quite suddenly, and warm fingers of joy threaded through his lean musculature as he forgot to worry and brood in favor of simply enjoying the game.

[/td][td valign=center] [/td][/tr][/table]