Come January every living thing, animal and thought, hide behind branches of snarl and light soaked mountains. It is all on the other side. Waiting with spring. The clouds can’t figure it out. The river keeps running. Neither the tracks nor bridges have a clue. The birds show up now and again. But they can’t be counted at this time of year.
Willow hears the coyotes in the bush and the big dogs barking in Athalmer. She’d better be careful. She is a hunter and has to learn when to stand down. The old dogs understood it. Willow is young. She is still learning the current of the creeks, the sounds under the snow, the flap of wings in the cold clear air and how even the slightest distraction can slow her down.
After all it’s a mission. After January it gets easier.