Big Salmon Lake will-o'-the-wisp

There had been no sun that day; the clouds had refused her. It had rained most of the afternoon, but as twilight came and went, the clouds thinned in the cold night-breeze and a nice, bright moon glimmered down in pebbling slivers. July had been directionless up until then— recently fed and without the faintest of a new purpose— but now he followed the lights reflecting in the puddles.

As he weaved through the woodlot, the mirrored glows would disappear whenever he neared a pocket of undrained rainwater, but padding in the dark never went on too long before another one appeared. He haplessly followed the random waterlights until the forest parted, trees falling away like dominoes, and the white wolf stood peering out towards a cold, shimmering lake. The broken clouds were passing at a steady rate above, teasing the area with an alternating spotlight as things went from being threaded with moonlight to being completely dark every few minutes.