Whitefish River lay it on the line

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he plunged his muzzle into the river, drinking deeply and quickly, sides heaving. he had been without water far too long, and though snow wet his tongue, it was hardly enough to sate his thirst. partly, mostly his fault, he supposed, for getting lost in that wood so long. but now, the sound of water having drawn the male like a beacon, he was quick to fill himself with the sweet, clear, horribly cold water. 

he drew his muzzle with a gasp, eyes closed as he treasured the sensation of ridding himself of the horrible thirst. alas, his relief did not last long, for soon the dull keening of hunger replaced the burning thirst. his a sigh at this new development the youth looked toward the sky, mint green optics roaming it slowly until the fastened on what he searched for. ravens.

a withering, dark cloud of them, perhaps half a dozen. ravens were his friend, he had learned on his months alone, for where they congregated, there was a meal. he set his legs into motion, and alongside the river he ran, his destination the distant flock. 

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