Redtail Rise poetry

When Avicus retired to the den, Masquerade paced outside, more like a chain-smoking father in a 1950s waiting room than a midwife. The gaunt yearling threw Ashlar looks every now and then. He seemed calm, so she took that as her cue, even if she couldn’t quite sit still.

She froze at the sound of a groan, then dropped into a crouch and crawled toward the doorway, unable to resist the urge to peek inside. She was rewarded with the image of Avicus pushing her firstborn into the world. Riveted, Masque bore witness as three more followed. Her eyes grew wider with each one.

“…after, they need dried and warmed…” Ashlar’s voice drifted up out of her memories. Masque exchanged a glance with the Hǣlend, then turned back to stare at her newborn siblings. They looked dry and warm, tucked against Avicus. The Ulfr’s tail thumped.

You did it, she whispered to her surely weary mother. Can I get you anything?

She would do whatever Avicus asked of her, though part of Masquerade hoped the Wealda would say “no,” so that she could just stay here and gaze at the pups for a while. There wasn’t much to them—they were totally helpless and impossibly tiny, with barely discernible features—but already they meant everything.

A bay bays!