Wapun Meadow Courageous, stumbling

With her cheek pressed against the earth she smells the ferment of dirt. Her vista is a whirl of dandelion blades and a tickle of sidewinds. Maybe a nap is deserved. Her eyelids shut.

But peace is stolen.

There’s a vicious step nearby, a plunging of wolf-paw upon her glade. She squints but will not lift her head.

“I’m hunting over here,” she growls in a half-daze to the creature somewhere above her, “go find your own meadow.”