Whitefish River the raven unfolded its wings and turned daylight into dark

 

i love it!

she didn't know the exact thoughts burning behind his skull —

tear bone from flesh, tear sinew from bone

— but the way those sulpherous yellow eyes glinted in the winter sun was telltatle enough. he reminded her of the stranger she'd met in the meadow reminiscent of a van gogh painting; lavendar and corpse-rot fills her nose and bile burns in her throat as she remembers something about discarded remains and something bitter, salty.

they remained statuesque as if movement might shatter the air between them, as if breathing too hard might set something violent in motion that couldn't be abnegated. the seconds between them stretched and she counted them by the steady whup-whup! of her heart; one-two, one-two, one-two.

finally he moved, shaking his coat out and she nearly screamed.  instead, a broken whine-bark caught in her throat.  he demands things of her and her hips lower to the ground, tail tucked between her legs as she begins to lick the air, and if he closes enough distance, the underside of his muzzle.