searching for a pulse

He skulked through the marsh with the tug of a snarl on his lips. The birds of Boreas had always been keenly interested in the lives of it’s inhabiting wolves, and gossiped at their expense constantly. A murder of crows he had initially recognized from the Redwood forest had a habit of appearing wherever he went and spoke quite loudly to each other, mainly of his first and apparently former love. At first they chattered noisily about the supposedly unknown fate of his daughter, commenting that she was most likely dead and very much so. When that had failed to get a rise from him they changed tactics and instead merrily babbled of her and the mysteriously handsome Branch, and coquettishly laughed at the how his poor lonely wife had found comfort in him. His jaws parted and he let out a slow and furious breath as he willed himself to move faster through the mud. He didn’t want to believe it. He could understand if she had been distraught when he left, but to abandon their daughter and cuckold him? She wouldn’t dare.

He skulked further, keeping his back to the horizon as a gale of laughter erupted from the treetops behind him. Insolent creatures. As the sun set and the voices of the birds faded behind him, his fury began to fade, and in its wake came immeasurable sadness. He turned, almost cautiously to watch as the sun sank below the horizon, painting the sky in rich oranges and lavender. “She would have loved this.” He thought, in spite of himself, and felt his throat tighten at the thought. He let his head hang for a moment, attempting to compose himself, then slowly lifted it with a low, mournful, howl.

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