Whitefish River and the ships are left to rust

mastery thread—tracking

the small details. 

the buck, antlers cloaked in velvet. he tears at the undergrowth, movements small and efficient, the crunch and tear of foliage evident. a bird wings overhead, and he continues, unbothered. a branch snaps, distantly, and his sleek head rises to hang at half-mast, stilling, before the sense of danger passes and he continues his forage. 

she's followed him here from the stream, a shadow. she's rust - once, or twice, the deer seems to be aware that its solitude is not what it seems. but she's settled into her role as shadow, and he into being watched, and so they exist in quiet togetherness in the glade.