Emberwood branch-waving

The woodland was fragrant this time of year, its foliage ablaze. Lonely pillars of somber green pines rose here and there through the sea of choking aspen, their pale bodies looming. A susurrus traveled like waves through the quaking fire leaves, and the birds trilled an alarm as the hunter passed.

Winter’s Wake followed his interrogative nose. Among the last hurrahs of flowers, the forest seeds and nuts and leaf decay, there was wolf. He found the brunette backside of his target, whose front end was aiming curious intensity over the edge of a rise in the land.

But they weren’t exactly hunting.

A disembodied stage-whisper came from behind the peeping tom: who are we spying on?