Phoenix Maplewood my buddies, they drink liquor; sometimes I'll go along

There was something about the woods that'd always struck the rambler as stifling and sad. He wanted to see the sky, feel the wind comb its cool fingers through his pelt. All that was better sited to the open tundras and grasslands he'd enjoyed further north. Failing that, Kin found that he didn't mind the smaller, bowl-like meadows that cut up the landscape in the taiga and the valley.

So no; the forest did not exactly suit him, even though he thought it was a rather fine one, as forests went. There was good hunting, at least, and cover from some of the harsher elements — not that Kincaid was unused or unsuited to cool weather. No, it was the rain he'd come here to escape.

The male was in something of a sour mood as he criss-crossed the woods, ping-ponging between two packs that seemed to grow ever-closer together on the trail of a troupe of talkative turkeys. (Here, the author also contemplated inserting 'gaining on a group of garrulous grouse'.) He was growing slightly alarmed with the way the two borders were beginning to close on either side; he could only hope that it was a bottleneck rather than complete overlap, and that the turkeys stayed their course and did not venture into either adjacent territory.