Bearealis

It walks a territory measured in days, not distance, pausing to rear up and read the wind, the aurora over its back brightening when it is roused. Prey rarely runs; the light seems to hold them, and a single sweep of a forepaw ends the matter. In deep winter it lies down in the open and lets itself be buried, breathing slow through a chimney it keeps clear in the drift, and the glow above it is all that marks the grave that is not one. Come the thaw, it simply stands up and walks on.