Golden Glade mourn the wicked

the storm rolls in, shifting in opaque waves of white. atoztli comes just close enough to see coyote in this one; it’s in the sweep of his long ears, the slant of his narrow face. 

he lodges his voice against the storm. though his posture is neutral atoztli does not come closer; instead she passes her long gaze over him, holding back the bite of her tongue. 

does he think he is the reason she hides? she pins him with a thinly veiled sneer. por que estas aqui?