Hushed Willows See me running full speed at it, shattering collide

Lately, the coywolf had been Up To Something. He always was, just as a natural circumstance of his birth. They'd inherited their slinking nature from the flower eater and their contrarian bullheadedness from Kentucky Bourbon. It was funny, Dusty Rose had always thought — the way these inherited traits had mixed into different personalities for all the kids. Bourbon had said it well, once: Slow West was, fuck me, I guess and Dusty Rose was, hey man, fuck you.

All that to say: the coywolf had amassed a not insubstantial pile of bones and sticks. What was he planning on doing with them? God only knew. But it was not so secret or important that Reverie didn't have his attention as soon as she appeared. Satellite dish ears pinged to attention and twisted toward her a moment before his body followed. By then, his tail was already wheeling in idle pleasure.

"Morning, sunshine," he said, eyeing the squirrel. He was not above stealing from pregnant women, but they did tend to make it an inadvisable use of his time.