Starglow Basin Panthera Leo

soto knows he walks on the knife's edge.

any day now that knife will tilt, and his life will tumble off of it.

for now he enjoys living. the scent of sun-baked dust, of burnt chaparral. the sensation of his fur brushing that of the wolf besides him. they match paces, the cinnamon stranger's far more fluid: soto's got a hitch or two in his getalong.

he motions to a trail where sheep have tamped down the red clay. ahead three sheep and a yearling scratch at the sand-flat, eating roots long shriveled by a relentless sun.