Phoenix Maplewood bad moon rising

he was a blight, an ugly scar that tore through the otherwise beautiful forest. bloodied moonlight filtered through layers of tangled canopy and cut the birches at a queer, diagonal angle; cast shadows elongated in tandem with his long, sweeping stride.

above him, an eclipse in full. already it had passed for an hour, perhaps more; it loomed overhead in the same foreshadowing, haunting way that he did as his bleached sides shifted like the light through the birch. his vibrant yellow eyes — not gold, not copper, but a venomous and deliberate yellow — were alert as one tattered ear flicked behind him.

the coarse, wiry hair between his shoulders stood on end as he pointed his muzzle now in the same direction. he could have sworn he had heard something.