Whitefish River the ice we skate is getting pretty thin

Along the banks of the river, a plateau rose sternly to his north. It had been coming for about the last day or so as he made a slow trek across the expanse of the flatlands, though Rickshaw had really been hoping it was just some weird prairie mirage. It wasn't, and since he had no desires to go climbing up the side of it he was left with the task of finding a decent place to cross the river. A river in which the early winter had broadened and froze in places, though the bubbling and rush of the water could easily be heard. His gamboling had died down into an easy lope along the chilly bank, and for a change of pace, sunlight had broken through the clouds once again.

So while part of the weather was no doubt in his favor — sunlight keen to warm his coat — crossing the river was looking to be a task he really wasn't going to enjoy. Everywhere he drew his gaze, river. No well-placed random tree trunk to bridge the gap (though where would have the tree come from in the barren plain?), no magic carpet ride to carry him across. He wasn't foolish enough to try fording or wading the waters either, he wasn't about to be swept under some plate of ice and drowned for his efforts. Though...

He paused along the riverbank where it lowered to the water's edge, curious of the ice sheet he found there. It didn't look sturdy at all. In fact, it was obvious to him that it didn't look that sturdy. Where snow blanketed it, there were wet spots galore in what could have been a crude path across. Sure, he saw plenty of little critter prints going right on across. Raccoons, beavers, whatever, he didn't pay any attention to what they were. Smaller than him, probably food. Huffing with frustration, the coyote did what he did best in those moments. He pounced on the ice in the swallows, trying to get it to crack and pop beneath his ridiculous leaps.

smash mouth — all star