Arrow Lake his wings are black as sin

like a beast put to plow, thorn hauled through the snowpack, his black body straining against the weighty load secured in his jaws. a gristly scene dragged behind him; the severed (or, perhaps a better term would be brutishly masticated) head of a moose stag. the kill had not been his own -- such a feat would have been godly -- but the moose had fallen through the ice, and had succumbed to cold beneath the black trapwater. 

thorn had chewed the frozen gristle free, and now dragged proudly his spoils behind him. the long fan of antlers left trails of upturned snow raking behind him, and every now and then he would glance behind him and see the lifeless glare of the moose staring back at him.