Blackfeather Woods Like summer storms, the skies as grey as leaves.

From his point of view the woman was slipping away. Had he been too forthright? He thought they spoke the same language (in a way), and watched her. His eye traced her figure without thinking too long about it; lingering on curves, but feeling nothing one way or the other until she looked over to him again.

She waited a moment and so Mesa followed.

The woman led him away from the broad reaching oak to a place where the pollen was lighter. He could take deeper breaths. The meadow was behind them somewhere, but here was a small grove where flowers had overtaken the soil.

He bent his head to sniff at some, warily, as if they might reach out and snap.