Coyote stumbled through the fog, favouring his rear right leg.
The sky pushed down, making the air heavy, thick and hard to breath. Everywhere he went, he was enveloped by that sickly sweet smell. Somewhere in the distance, voices cried out.
The crows lifted from their branches and flew all together away from him. He stopped under a now vacant tree, and licked at his wound. His tongue come away not red, but black, and with the taste of coming winter.
Coyote circled about to flatten the grass, and used what he had left to give a short, proud howl.
Prompt courtesy of Warm Up Wednesdays.