Barrow Fields crows lie, strewn their eyes are

Before panic about the thing hulking his neck could set in, a young stranger set upon him. 

His altogether far too enthusiastic approach earned a hard look from Anselm, who immediately stood to attention with the fur along his spine lifting. The glint in the yearling’s eye called to mind something akimbo; a tree spinning downriver, a hawk’s skeleton sequestered in a bitterly black cave — uneven footing in a dream. 

Warn him? Had he seen the enormous birds in the sky? The hope Anselm felt dashed immediately as the subject changed and he mentioned him being here to help. Anselm, helpful?

Vhat? Anselm spat almost immediately, compelled to put distance between them as memory of other erratic wolves came to the surface. Heda. Druid. The nameless black wolf in the woods. Sobered by this prospect, Anselm took two wary steps back.