Arrow Lake trommelschlag

mahler dragged his large frame against the boles of a pine bordering diaspora, leaving his scent and tufts of his fur tangled upon the rough bark. to its fellow he did the same; to a third, the man reared up and pawed a visible mark high along the trunk. he was meticulous, silent; he recalled the last patrol of swiftcurrent creek he had ever done, and how the dark woman whose name he had now forgotten had looked at him.
thinking of she-wolves in any fashion caused discomfort to stir in mahler, not the nerves of a boy, but perhaps the wariness of a man who knew his own natural weakness, and wanted to be rid of it. 
the gargoyle turned his mind to other things,  moving slowly along the treeline to mark each with his fragrance.