2/5 | hunter | 8 months

Reid does not know of his audience. He feels all the expansive thrill of independence, blissfully unaware that he also enjoys all the security of an escort at the same time. His attention is not on the scents on the wind and his ears do not twitch away from the direction of the pheasant rooster pecking at seeds hidden between the blades of grass. The robin lowers himself in tiny increments, instinct making him flatten himself into a sinewy, feline shadow slipping through the foliage. His ears pin to his skull so no part of him dares peek above the waves of grass that tickle his face and brush against his belly.

His heart beats fast, adrenaline flooding his veins in mere anticipation of the ensuing explosion of movement. A breath, bated. The pheasant lifts his head, stiffens in warning of alarm, and Reid bursts from the shadow in a flourish of color. He's close enough to pounce on the rooster as it tries to take flight, tail whipping over his hips like a scarf in the wind, but doesn't get a good bite on the bird's body nor frantically beating wings. It catches the wind and bolts out from beneath Reid's snapping jaws.

The freedom of the sky isn't enough to save it. Reid's weight rocks back on his heels, limbs coiling like springs to launch himself into the air after his quarry. Paws leave the ground. He is no longer adorned in scarves of pale fur and auburn accent. He is the ribbon cutting through wind, sunlight reflecting off his shiny fur as he twists mid-air to try to redirect and snap at the pheasant.

It's over quickly. Reid lands on his feet with catlike grace and nothing to show for it except a few long tail-feathers fluttering in the breeze, clenched in his jaws. The sky! He touched the sky! Why, he is nearly convinced he flew, for that brief weightless second. The frustration of losing his prey doesn't take root within Reid. He's young enough it's all still a game, and he prances in the field, spins in excited circles, dances with his measly prize of mere feathers. The long tail-feathers gleam and flow on the breeze, and the boy heaves an over-excited sneeze or two. All the windedness, all the waning days spent in the den, all the mandatory naps, the constant illnesses; none of it can touch him now, here.