Dawnlark Plains a bird in the hand is worth a lotte in the bush

There was snow.

Day had missed snow - there'd been a lot of it where he'd grown up, and his father before him, and his before him and so on. The point was, he was bred for it and born into it, and his coat had never gotten the memo that he was now out of it, for the most part. Summer had been awful, when he hadn't shed his body weight in fur like everyone else. And he was glad that it'd never happened to him before when he'd been living at hom in Alaska, but now? It was getting a little too hot.

But here, he could run and jump and play and hardly feel the heat ; when he rolled, it caked his coat in a thick layer - like a portable air conditioner! Day laughed as he gamboled like a pup in the thick layer of white that coated the ground, only to become stock-still when he saw an unkindness of ravens doing the same thing a few yards away. They'd observed him warily at first, but when it became clear that he hadn't noticed them, they'd gone about their business.

Well. He'd noticed them, now.