Arrow Lake ou l'Optimisme

Ah! brisk fall! The feeling of a gentle breeze upon rising from the (obviously enticing) but cloying warmth of a lover's embrace. Cool and fresh upon the face. A kiss from the sky. The promise of stark winter. Oh—

But any more waxing poetic is a digression from the tale;

Donatien du Pont stands aloft, poised upon a jagged rock away from the lakeshore, peering down below. To the denizens of the canyon he must look merely a tiny shadow; he feels godlike, perched here. Or at the very least a grinning eagle.

He wets his lips, thinking of ways to whet his appetite. It's been a long trek from the Great White North, and he's found little for sustenance and even less for company. Already skinny, he's been whittled down to nothing by the summer.

Oh, cruel, dry summer. And even worse down here!—

The mountains give some comfort, and the autumnal air even more so. And the prospect of wolves nearby—he smells them; they've marked their borders with pungent pride—excites him. His tail wags without volition, madly, gleefully.

He stands erect in more ways than one, thinking of all this world could offer.