Flycatcher Downs dropped the ball on this one

the wast flatness stretched on infinite, reaching beyond where those huddled in the mud of the wilderness dared thread. fields upon fields seeded with tough grass readying itself for the scorch of summer. a pronghorn or two, of the great migration that carried them back to their natal lands. 

a shadow, ribbed and sharp-edged, prowling through the swaying grass.

she'd seen the shine of that coat, like an oddity first passed over, then returned to when the wrongness of it struck the soul. a bare spot on the downs, a bone exposed through healthy skin.

wrong, wrong, wrongness.

she prowled to where the palecoat was building a nest, malnourishment making her step weightless.