Wapun Meadow Talk Show Host

@Hyacinth

Glorious, rosy and coppertoned, the morning sky cast a soft shade of pink over the meadow where the snow had melted to little more than a film through which old shrubs and dead grass from the season past rose like little soldiers. Off in the copse of cottonwood trees that franed the field a lark sang, heralding the dawn to the few pronghorns that grazed peacefully at the outskirts of the meadow. One raised its head, suddenly, and uttered a sharp snort to alert the others, who were skittish enough to start, before they went back to grazing. The stag uneasily eyed the meadow and ushered his small herd into the woods, disappearing into the darkness.

Sheol was not hungry- he’d hunted through the night and had already cleaned every trace of blood and fur from his coat, returning it to silky alabaster once more. He strode to the edge of the meadow after casting a glance around the perimeter, and moved toward the stream which cut through it like a ribbon of silver. Crouching like a panther, the tall male stopped to drink, ears still flicking back and forth, ever alert, as the pronghorns had been, should any other wolf choose to visit the meadow in the rosy hour of sunrise.