The swollen, hovering, storm-grey clouds finally closing in and breaking. Breaking, with the fervour and flood of heavy, heaving rain and flashing light that had shaken the ground and rocked the earth’s core. Trees shaking, blowing, in the wind and rain.
He emerged, in the early morning, from beneath the bottom branches of an evergreen tree. Its needles and branches waterlogged and sagging, pulled by gravity and catching, dragging, in his fur.
It was cold.
The air unnaturally still.
The sun still rising.
The ground still soft—waterlogged—from the torrential downpour hours before.
He stretched, forelimbs splayed and reaching as he popped the muscles and knots in his shoulders, his back.
He stood and shook the cold and damp from his fur.
Alone.
Again.
His ear twitching at the distant sound of birdsong,
He smacked. Licked his lips unhappily and grumpily.
His ears rolling back against his head.
And he walked.
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