Whitefish River had enough so-so for the rest of my life

It had been so very long since she had any true interaction with anyone. There were instances of seeing others, of understanding where she was, but the young bird hadn't the slightest idea of her current whereabouts, only that where she was now was exceptionally different from the place she had begun. Bluebird had been moving in circles, but in time she follows the tracks of a wolf who had not borrowed hiding them; she is anxious, as she does so, knowing well the horrors of approaching one that did not desire company.

And so as she arrives, breaking through the thinning line of trees, she spots a wolf across the way. Lobes melt atop her skull as she surveys him from afar, before deciding she had better not interrupt, better not even say a word. His eating reminds her that she needs to eat, and she lifts her wedgelike muzzle to inhale the crisp air while her eyes simultaneously search the sky for a sign of ravens circling carrion, an easy meal. She turns from the stranger, having not truly observed him (rude, rude!), hoping that perhaps he does not even note her presence.