Cricket Creek Bog a gentle breeze or lightning in a storm

@Weejay but AW

This was a place for Maiira. The coywolf was sure that most of her cousins (full-blooded wolves, for she did not think of herself as part-wolf) would hate a place like this. However, for Maiira, this was a place full of things to explore. The constant noise of the crickets became a lullaby, but not for sleep. It was as if the crickets were calling out to her to come and find them, to see what else was in this dank, dark bog. She could see herself calling this place her home, but in her heart of hearts, Maiira knew she had no true home. She was a wanderer, and wander she would, probably for the rest of her days.

Maiira stepped up to a pool of water and sniffed at it. She was surprised to find that its water was fresh and drinkable. Perhaps this bog was not as bad as others she had been through. There was mud aplenty, certainly, but drinkable water was a point in its favor. Not that Maiira minded mud. In fact, she loved mud. If it were summer, a good mud bath could cool her right down. It was Autumn, however, and Maiira could see herself telling ghost stories to an avid listener here among the chirping crickets. Curious to see if anyone was around, she let out a howl—a coyote’s yipping, broken howl, as opposed to a wolf’s. Her mother had been a coyote, and thus, this was the only howl she knew how to do properly.