Wheeling Gull Isle let my imagination run away with you gladly

with a nod, she acquiesced, and he twisted into the most graceful shape his burly body could muster, stretching out long before her--the artist, warming up--before rising up once more. breaking into the slowest of trots, he circled her several times, hips swaying with the movement, tail aloft and streaming in the sea breeze.

truly, he was not a competent dancer--but the song he heard in his heart guided his paws, and so he danced, and danced for her. danced with her, if she would allow.

all good dancers told a story, and he told his own, breaking into a lope and circling the tree, his tongue lolling with joy. he climbed the slope then, with graceful precision, tumbled down it, mimicking his descent into the sea. he rolled a few times and slowly, slowly, dragged himself toward her, laying at her feet, feigning labored breathing.

and just as slowly brought himself up, muzzle just inches from her paws, then her legs, then her chest, and finally, her face. aditya stared at her a long moment, searching her eyes for emotions he desperately wanted to find. desire crackled like lightning through his body as he reached out his nose as if to kiss her. . .

then brought it downwards to rest near his left forepaw, in an elegant bow.