and wild plum trees in tremulous white

The little stray drew a breath so deep her concave sides fluttered at its apex; she spent it on a flurry of soft, snuffling whuffs, timorously investigating the stranger in turn. Her finely tapered muzzle tipped upward as her posture curved to reflect Grayday’s — he arched over her, and she flowed like a tilde to meet him, gleaning what information she could. She took his cursory evaluation as a token of his acceptance and warmed accordingly, dancing lightly toward his son with a playful tilt of her head. “Not what you like?” he’d asked her, his tone light and innocuous. She had no personal aversion to mice, but she had no clear way of conveying this; nevertheless, she tried her best. Tufted ears perked atop her head like two upside-down exclamation points as she tipped her head entreatingly to the side and stretched out one catlike paw, waggling it indolently: her equivalent of classifying something as so-so. Mice were nice — just small.

His next question was both easier to answer and harder to admit: simply, she shook her delicate head and allowed her ink-plumed tail to sketch a scribbled apology that she could give no voice to.