Honeyed Pasture sworn before a light of knife's edge white

There is naught to be found in the tall grasses beyond relative peace, which is a acceptable outcome. Poet drifts through the stalks, wondering if she's alone in the pasture or if there are others near she can't sense. The idea is oddly appealing: a sort of connection through the earth, communually occupied space without the baggage of conversation. 

Her theory is proven right (sort-of) by the call near-by. She can smell him too, mixed in amongst the paths of others long since gone, and returns his call with one of her own, low and dulcet. Her height does not offer much help in attempting to locate him (or herself), dwarfed by the grass at this junction, though she carefully tries to pick a path toward the sound of his call. "I'm afraid I may run into you, literally," Poet calls playfully as she moves forward.