Otter Creek And the book you write's magnificent

Stoneclatter—
she had been in the midst of plucking such a gilded feather from the furs that swathed aching midspine; now, halfsight arcs up at what appears to be an unassuming entrance, swathed in cream and undoubtedly male. For all that she raises her own shorn head, for all the bit of down that clings adamant to the corner of one lip  (a cat who has missed the canary, in another life),  the stricken allows her brow to list; as if it will preserve what-ever dignity might be left to scavenge of her own bearing. That, and a mere wisping of: 

“Wind guide you, wanderer.”