Golden Glade Home on the Remains

He'd been following the scent for about an hour.  The wind had wafted just right to give him the inkling that it was there, but it had been a pain to nail down something so faint as the breezes shifted as if to taunt him.  It wasn't very strong and it was still fresh and new, but it was the scent of death and it was so very enticing to a hungry wolf such as himself.  It was approaching two months since he'd left home, and though he'd done ok for himself since then, he was missing having a full stomach almost every night more than anything.  He had to keep moving.  He'd passed between and around the odd pack here and there but he was running out of land to roam.  Eventually he'd have to stop.

First, though, was food.  The trail was stronger now, and after another minute or two more wandering beneath the dying canopy, he found what he was looking for.  A crow had died and fallen from its perch, landing in a lump beneath a branch.  Maybe it was actually a small raven, he wasn't sure, but just the fact it was free food made it seem enormous, despite how little meat would likely be on its bones.  Still, it was something.  The cold temperatures had kept insect activity to a minimum and he'd been lucky to find it before someone else.  Fortune favored him.  Quixote lifted the bird in his maw, giving the hard to-bend bird a good shake to dislodge leaves and bugs and trotted a dozen feet away to settle down and begin plucking the feathers from its breast.  He pondered for a moment if it was late enough to be called dinner, and given the softening of the shadows, it probably was.  Either way, it had definitely been served to him in a manner that was nature's equivalent of a silver platter.