Lost Creek Hollow they remember the people who feed them

the silence that accompanies the turmoil the wilds suffers is almost unnerving. of course, law tries to assure himself, he is not likely to hear the familiar symphony of crickets and tree frogs this time of year but he suspects that the famine might have upped his sudden tendency for superstition. somewhere above an owl screeches into the frigid, early morn light. in the distant horizon the first vestiges of the sunrise can be seen in the peeking citrine orange that illuminates the crest of the earth but the velveteen navy blues and rich violets of night remain at large. they are briefly broken by the small crescent of candied moonlight but thick clouds drift forward to obscure it most of the night.

slumber evades law and after trying and failing to fall back to sleep he eventually surrenders and rises to his paws, stretching and giving his thick, coarse winter coat a shake. a small, scrawny opossum has the ultimate misfortunate of crossing paths with him, lumbering on its way as it had been, and law makes quick work of it though it does little to sate the permanent rumble of his stomach these days — he tries not to think about the fact that he only just got here. salmon pink tongue draws across his jowls to clean them from his snack as he ambles his way to the borders figuring a patrol might be enough to settle the restlessness that has taken harbor within him — likely, he thinks, because he's been exhibiting too much good behavior.

nanowrimo: 260