far from perfect

He had been watching her. He had watched as she gathered herbs and carried them toward some destination and now watched as she howled for someone. Tucked in the brush, he waited patiently for some time, but no one came. No one sang back. She was alone, and he had an itch to scratch. He slid from his cover and approached, leaping upon a decently high, weather worn rock at the edge of the stream a dozen feet or so from her. Here he sat, his eyes settling upon her, tail curled about his paws. "Is the prey so scarce you've taken to grazing?" he asked, voice like silk.