Lost Creek Hollow There's delays on the planes out of Eastern Montana

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the snow had long since melted, but the chill lived on in her.
drífa moved like frost across stone—slow, silent, there one breath, gone the next. her coat carried the dusk with it, a bristle of dark and iron, mottled with the dull sheen of old scars and northern winters. medium-built, but dense through the shoulder and thigh, her steps were heavy only when she meant them to be.
she crouched low in the brush, body taut. her breath held.
the calf was alone.
not for long, but long enough.
its legs were too long for its body. still soft. still trusting. its ears twitched at every sound but never at the right ones.
drífa watched with stone-set eyes. said nothing. thought nothing.
just waited.
the wind shifted.
a good wind.
her claws flexed in the loam. her weight rolled forward. the stalk began.