Aroara

It hunts the mid-slopes now, alone, tracking the scent-trails of smaller creatures across snowfields with a nose that reads yesterday's traffic like a page. When it runs flat-out the cold sheds off its back in a rippling glow, beautiful and, to prey, the last thing they see. Nights it climbs to a high shelf and practices standing perfectly still, learning from instinct the patience its final form will need. It is proud, and it fails often, and it does not seem to mind.