Duck Lake montefitu

twitch didn’t see him at first. she wasn’t looking, gaze drawn skyward. the sun had crept in slow, painting the lake in rippling gold, and she’d watched it with lidded eyes, listless, a mere observer to the drifting clouds.

and then—movement. not the herd, not the skittish shapes at the water’s edge, but something closer.

her ears flicked back before her gaze followed, dragging over the knoll where he lay. sprawled. unbothered. his belly to the sky like some great carcass, limbs slack, throat bared. twitch stared, stiff, hackles twitching at the stillness of him. dead? maybe. didn’t smell like it. no obvious cause..

but then, the rise and fall of his chest. the faint flick of a tail, the lazy curl of a lip. oh! alive, then. she supposes that’s good for him—maybe not her. she knows from a glance that he is no friend of the valley, nor her.

she does not watch him long—a twig snaps distantly, and her head whips around to stare in that direction instead. black-tipped ears flatten against her skull, chin tucking. feet firmly planted, but she is leaned into her hind legs—it is instinct to run.