Bearclaw Valley some kind of plastic i could wrap around you

He watches her face sharpen. Like watching a periscope surface from an opaque ocean. The open and close of a massive telescope looking into the sky with its mirrors.
Through his closed eyes, he sees the deep red thrum of sunlight through flesh. A warm and colorful x-ray. The smell of coyote wafts into the fine hairs and the organ just under the bone of his nose bridge.
From somewhere to the right, he hears a twig snap underfoot. His ears perked, his postured lowered, his face already halfway in a sneer. Predators were born this way, and they lived this way, and they died this way.
This time, it is him that leads, quietly through the undergrowth. Quiet like sarin gas. The fog on its little cat feet.