Wheeling Gull Isle I got the woofers in my Jeep

Seelie tossed her head playfully when Sockeye rubbed his cheek against her shoulder, exchanging their scents. In invitation, she bounded a pace away and dipped into a playful bow, her forepaws beating a sprightly tattoo against the rolling dune. His question was answered with a nod, and then Coelacanth did draw breath to speak, tufted ears flipping back upon her skull with obvious indecision and reluctance. “Our island,” she breathed in a threadbare whisper. “We — of here, this island, jewel under sky’s light and sea’s song. Undersea.” She was eager to put the verbal part of their interaction behind her, and leaned forward. If Sockeye would allow, she would nibble at his cheek, then dart away with a daring, airy whine.