Meadowlark Prairie rancid dinner with the pope

pickings across the mesa had been slim -- but not for lack of life. as if mother nature had a cruel sense of irony, there was no shortage of small birds fluttering across the flatlands. indra had watched them hungrily - some finches, some grouse -- an intelligent and sleek black starling trilling on a slender reed -- every one of them relentlessly and unfairly out of capture range.

she was not quick enough to down quarry armed by wings -- many eluded her attempts -- and finally, fed up by the fruitless endeavor, she set her sights to finding some source of water along the prairie. it was then she spotted a lone figure cutting across the mesa. for a moment he appeared to be motionless -- indra squinted as his obscured form came into better view.

there was no use in hiding -- the meadow afforded little shelter -- and with a slow ambling gait she made her way to the storm-grey wolf with her posture neutral and expression somewhat friendly. for reason she could not discern, she thought his muzzle looked somewhat swollen. "hi."