Chahta glanced up, the bird on the branch moved its head from side to side like it was clockwork, like there was a switch in its brain that flicked to choose the direction to look but not the speed of the motion. Every turn was rapid, almost too fast to see. But in the moments it was still Chahta could see the glossy black eyes set in the plumage of an impossibly bright blue. It was the kind of blue that belonged on an artist's palate, yet better than that, it was so brilliant as to almost look like a source of light rather than a reflection of the sun's rays. The bird was small too, no bigger than a navel orange but far from round. It was shaped like an English robin, with the wide breast, but the tail feathers and wings elongated the body, giving it an elegance. It had a short beak, but curved and strong like a wolf claw. After singing a few notes it spread it's wings and in a flurry of blue it ascended to the tree tops and out of view. With the loamy spring air, it promised to arrival of many more avians. Sadly, along with those would come more Crows.
Chahta averted her gaze around the den site, scanning the faces of the surrounding wolves. It is awfully quiet here. She thought to herself.