Firefly Glen (PHE) The ballad of the witches’ road.

Catching her grandson’s mispronunciation this time, Towhee quipped, You can call him Buttshit. I do it all the time. Both accidentally and deliberately. Cackling (not so) softly, she added, I would love for them to meet. The little goober hasn’t had many playmates in the copse.

It was only Otter. She was only a handful of months older, though a great chasm of time seemed to span between the two. She’d had to grow up so fast on account of her parents’ and brother’s departure and sometimes seemed too melancholy to deal with the baby. Towhee didn’t blame her. Often, she wished she’d gone with them.

Pulling her thoughts back to the present, Towhee blinked at Kukutux and realized aloud, I guess we’re as close to next spring as we are to this last one, aren’t we? This little guy coming so late—in the season, not to mention in life—has really thrown me off, she admitted. It’s wild to think I could have even more grandkids and great grandkids in the near future.

She made eye contact with Killdeer and raised her eyebrows, then wiggled them. It pleased her that the Redhawk genes had come though so strongly in two of his daughters. It would be fun to have even more copies running amok on the mountainside.

But how are the hunts going? And with all these wolves gathered together, surely there’s some good gossip and drama to share?