When Hirundo woke, the world was cold and dark and quiet. No birdsong greeted him. Not even the ominous hoo-hooing of owls. Only the endless, blanketing drift of snow and wind. He hardly felt the cold against his paws and nose; if it were not for the beating for his heart, he might have imagined himself dead, wrapped in the earth's final embrace.

His eyes snapped open. Hirundo scrambled to his feet with a panicked cry. Sides heaving as he struggled to get his bearings, he spun around. Hello? he croaked out.

The shroud of snow offered no familiar faces. Neither did the shadowed landscape, the endless tree trunks whirling around him. He stared down at his paws, and breathed deeply as he gathered himself. Alone. He was alone. With no idea what else to do, he stuffed his face back into the snow and tried to pretend it was all a dream.

Coyote had started to take it upon himself to scout ahead of the others. He isn't the keenest of eyes nor the fastest but he's evidently the one with a nose for knowing trouble from an inconvenience, which allows him to feel confident in the position of breaking the ground ahead of them. His advance is curious today, lured further than planned by the frozen strands of hanging petals just about the shade of crimson.

They remind him a little of the flores de nochebuena (poinsettias) his Mamá had shown him.

Do they smell the same?

Hello?

That's the distant sound which spins him around, scaps-for-ears pricked high in alert. Now what's that?

Coyote navigates through the winding, dim treescape. It's a far cry from any terrain he's seen before and the novelty sparks the slightest of tail wags as he continues forth.

His tail stops the moment he finds the grey-furred body face-first in the snow. He stops next to sniff the air.

Doesn't smell dead.

His muzzle wrinkles when he asks, his own voice softer than he's used to, "¿Estás muerto?" (You dead?)