Bearclaw Valley nostalgia

the world is muffled beneath the hush of dawn, save for the rustle of branches, the slow inhale-exhale of her own breath. she is still, watchful.

she sees them from a short distance, perched along the boughs above, feathers puffed against the cold. small things, fragile things. too easy to startle, too quick to flee—much like her. she needs to be faster. smoother. she shifts her weight, soft-footed across crisp blades of grass. she tells herself she won’t miss this time.

there’s a flicker of hesitation. she can hear her pulse in her ears, that creeping doubt slithering in like it always does. what if she fucks it up? what if she hesitates too long? she grits her teeth. no. focus. you're fine. you just need to move.

muscles coil. a slow inhale. a sharper exhale. then she lunges.