Duck Lake the long fall

小 山猫, they used to call her. Little lynx.

She stalks as one, letting her head sink low until her gaze falls level with round bodies, wetting her nose to drink in their scents. A gorge of winter seeds and berries promise a fat prize, if she can take it. Timing is everything. 

Watching the rising ruffle of their feathers, the anxious stretch of their wings, Fúyáo is ready when they erupt from the bushes at his feint, kicking against the frozen ground and surging skywards in a twisting leap.

Iron coats her tongue as her teeth snag a wing, landing deftly and finishing the kill with a swift bite to the neck. And while her chest heaves from the effort, her eyes dance wildly for him.