by K. W. Jeter
Sitting back on its haunches, the wolf shape watched the distant hawk, the red eyes following the slow curve inscribed against the sky. Then it eased away, back to join the others, out of the mounting heat.
The hawk drifted away, scanning the ground for the small life that fed its own. It rose in the sky, the level earth falling away, the empty space held in the hawk's bright, unblinking vision.
Slow hours passed, or didn't pass; nothing saw or marked them.
The dark water reached the rim of the basin, trembled, then with the next drop that fell, spilled over the side, a thin line running down the stone.
It didn't seep into the ground. A twisting, snakelike shape formed, a black thing without eyes. For a moment it was still.
Then it moved, inching across the dry earth.
