Swiftcurrent Creek burning a kite; i'm at a funeral, nothing unusual

He continued to stand, then, still and wary and out of place. His shoulders were tensed and bunched, defensive and uncomfortable, and his posture low and slouching. His ears pressed faintly back against his head and his tail was a leaden, awkward, dead weight behind him, hanging lifeless between his hocks.
 
His hackles bristled as he watched her, his body and mind torn between watching her or the body.
 
‘She was my mother, actually.'
 
He grunted. Nodded. Hovered.
 
Felt awkward and heavy and on edge beneath her lifeless stare. He struggled and failed to fight the urge to bare his teeth, his black upper lip curling and peeling back and up.
 
And then, finally, with a sweeping look away—
 
“Was she sick for long?” His voice was low and rough.