Whitefish River the world's a beast of a burden

mastery thread—tracking

focus.

on the small things—the trail that stretches before her, the gentle pater of rain on an aging canopy, the heed smell of petrichor and raccoon. the crush of loose soil underfoot, the way her whole frame stills at the flash of movement up ahead, the soft sound of ears twisting atop her skull. the hunt, the quarry. 

not the big things—those will tear you apart and gut you, leave you gasping and reeling and unable to contemplate a future. 

she moves, a sliding stalk as smooth as water over rocks. the trail is concrete, fresh enough to promise reward. she makes it only a few yards before pausing again, hearing the gentle chittering of the creature ahead and knowing it is close.

and then the sounds of its foraging stop, and she hears the rustling of leaves, claws against bark, and it is gone. rising, she begins her search for another trail.