The Bracken Woods Superstition

It was bad luck to drink water from a source near your kill. 

The lynx panted softly in the wake of the hunt, the tip of her tongue curled against the warmth of the air she breathed. Summertime heat could be nearly unbearable. She could have waited until dusk to hunt but the gangly hare had been too tempting to resist. The chase had led them both zig-zagging through the woodlands until she overtook her quarry on the edge of a stream. 

Its blood trickled into the water. She was thirsty, but she kept her impulse in check. Even though it was her own kill, which she’d pull away from the shore to gnaw, she wouldn’t drink from the water until she’d finished eating, and had moved upstream. 

She ate quickly, nervously, eyes up and tufted ears switching independently- ever on guard should someone even fathom approaching her while she ate.