The Willow

She was red. No, she was russet. The thin woman stared at her reflection in the water, noting blue eyes and her two-toned pelt. Not red, russet. Not blood. She was clean and stared for another moment to confirm this; sighing. Then she lifted her maw and walked away from the river. There was no pride in the woman's step; but there was stealth. Her steps were quiet as a wolf's body could permit and she was cautious. The summer heat was fading, hints of autumn beginning to show in the cooling temperatures. It was nearing evening and her nerves had begun to cool with the weather. She had hunted in the morning; most of her uneasy feelings had begun to quell. She was strong today. There were days where she would spend the whole time fretting. Today she had other concerns.

Dusk fell and she was no closer to finding shelter. The air was cool on her fur and she watched the navy hues begin to settle in. Her eye was drawn to a wispy willow, its long branches hanging down. She headed towards it, intrigued. It was a beautiful creature.