A Silver Wisp

I followed the wolf’s outward stride from the sandbar into a thick fringe of sandbar willows. Near knee-height on a brittle, sun-bleached branch, a small tuft of thick, silver-gray underfur had snagged against the rough bark, fluttering faintly in the afternoon air. Kneeling low on the dry silt, I steadied myself against the roots. Reaching forward with both curved hands, I gently unhooked the pale fibers without snapping the slender twig. In Lakota, we call animal coat or fur *híŋ*. The down felt surprisingly dense and resilient between my fingers, carrying the faint, clean scent of dry stone. I smoothed the fibers flat against my palm and tucked the quiet gift into my pouch.