Redhawk Caldera tadpoles

She must be quiet. Stand still. With a slight tip of acknowledgement, Bronte inhaled and shut her eyes.

She pictured herself as one with the stream. Merging with the waters seamlessly, where her legs may have no end. In her chest, she pictured her heart slowing to a calming, tranquil beat. Attentively but peaceably, she drunk in the sounds of the wild all around her. Let them merge and mesh, enveloping her.

In those few seconds, she already felt re-focused when she opened her eyes again. As she did the world around blurred out. Her vision focused pin point on only the deepest of dark shadows and nothing else. She watched for the shape of a dorsal fin. The flutter of a tail. The sweeping movement of a fish pressing through the water.

She did not move a muscle. Not a twitch. She waited until one dark shape turned, looking to come in her direction. There was no thought; only action as her muzzle darted forward to plunge seamlessly in the water. Teeth parted. Seeking. Trying to grip. Grazing scales. The fish was much more slippery and quick than she had ever expected. A mouthful of grayed scales shaved off for her efforts.