Firefly Glen Caledonia

A solitary crow flew overhead, causing Shrike to lift his gaze. He could hear the soft whoosh of air from each wingbeat as the corvid flew on, winging effortlessly through the trees as though carried aloft by some warm, billowing puff of air. He wondered briefly what it might be like to fly as he eyes the bird with a sideways glance. He shook his head as a small black feather landed on one of his ears. Such fanciful things did not often preoccupy the austere male.

He could see the faded tracks of wolves who had passed by before- between recent snowfall and the wind those tracks were unidentifiable by footprint, but the length of the stride was recognizable. He crossed them, leaving a clear set of tracks of his own, subconsciously following the crow’s path, figuring the bird might lead him to a source of food.

Above him the tall, greyed trunks of aspen creaked and crackled as their branches grasped at one another, like old withered hands reaching for those belonging to a beloved. So he felt, as he wandered along, also searching for someone who always seemed to be just out of his grasp.