The head tilts upwards, the ears prick. The wind has carried a message, a story, a clue.
Without further hesitation, he is off and running. Stops…..sniffs again…..and sprints. The terrain is becoming less familiar but the euphoria is indescribable.
The gusts ease. The wind no more than a gentle quiver. Halted, moving from the strength of nose to eyes and back again. There is a tree, dead. White with grey markings, fallen. Approaching silently, scent getting stronger. Scratching. Desperation. It knows he’s near.