Firefly Glen but when i go to sleep at night, don't you call my name

fear arrowed through him; her eyes cast shortly 'round the breadth of the glen, but still the she-wolf did not stir. only they, the fireflies, and the wind breathed life into this glen, and yet his fur razored like succubi visible to no woman encircled him. 

he hunched low and on the wind's own silent feet she crept into another mere shadow, parrying his movements—but it was difficult to see where the crocodile moved once he crouched in the tall grass, and she was forced to dislimn from the darker shadows where the breeze blew more in her favor into the lighter, where it blew opposite.

the moonless sky passed him the advantage, now, for her eyes could not discern any shape in the grass. she sank to her still milk-engorged stomach and flattened her ears flush against her skull, hoping the kindler of his scrutiny would be quick to draw him away from her.