Blackfoot Forest Singeing Through Cosmoses

His muzzle twists into smile, he rises to slowly traipse along her side, eyes outcast as he did so, to the faraway, untouched places the moon would not light. There was nothing to look for. There was only here. And while he was here, he would create something; transform it. On this earthly plane, or in his mind. Maybe both. He has done so before, as marked by the silvering fur along his crown. His years are upon his pelt and so too is his experience. 

“Perhaps whispers are coaxed from sand and gravel. Do you know what lies to the west, little raven?” From his lips, a gentle ask, always gentle with her. He listens to her breath, warm upon the still night air. She is blithe and full of want. He drinks from this.