Orange in a storm

Padded paws clamber frantically over fallen limbs, prints hidden mere seconds after her steps.

Scanning and sniffing, her cold ears twitch and turn, but the only howl they hear brings no comfort.

The wind has woken, whipping white dust across her eyes.

Urgently searching, she checks in empty burrows, sniffs under dead trees, and trawls the ice’s edge.

No sign.

The blizzard swirls harder, making it almost impossible to see beyond the few paces in front of her eyes.

Desperation curls at her edges in a way that only mothers can understand.

With all tracks enveloped by snow, fear drives her forward.

The flurries drop for a moment, enough for her ears to snatch the quiet whine away to her right.

There, against the giant boulders, huddled together so tightly it’s impossible to tell where one begins and another ends, lie two bundles of dull-orange fur, shivering incessantly.

Their eyes light up, two pairs of black pinpricks set against the unforgiving white.

She bounds over, no time to scold. Quickly up on shaky legs, gentle nips to make them move, she nudges the two along.

The storm swells, seemingly desperate to hold them.

Three sets of legs leap over frozen rivers.

The tempest shrieks louder, chasing tired tails.

Three sets of legs skitter across icy stones.

The gale sighs, and finally gives up the chase.

Two sets of legs scramble into a den that smells like home, and one weary pair follows.

A grateful mother curls up beside her cubs.