Swiftcurrent Creek burning a kite; i'm at a funeral, nothing unusual

He could smell the scent of rot and decay and illness. It hung in the air like an omen, and tried to hide beneath the cold, damp, wet, heavy smell of freshly overturned dirt and leaf litter.
 
The air was cold.
 
Tinged with ice and stone.
 
It was the latter smell—familiar and discomforting—that he followed into the woods, and to the creek and the den.
 
He saw the body, lifeless and still, dark and bleak. And he saw the wolf beyond it. He saw her tail, too long by half and oversized, its tip dipped in black, spilling out from the den’s mouth. He saw the dirt being pulled out. And he could smell the scent of decay in the air, the sickeningly sweet, too sharp tinge of illness.
 
It set his teeth on edge.
 
Made the hair along his shoulders, neck, and back stand on edge.
 
He could feel his heart speed up, from where it beat inside his chest.
 
“Did you kill her?” He asked. Demanded to know.
 
He didn’t step closer.