Swiftcurrent Creek who would trade that hum at night

she had become an apt hunter, and yet, her navigational skills remain as poor as over. she does not remember when last she'd seen her mother, her sisters; the days and weeks seem vague, unreliable. she knows how to read the little things; those certain bird calls which cue danger, the way scavengers point the way to a meal, those changes all around that are precursors to a storm. and yet she can not find her plateau, no matter how many similar-looking rocky passages she follows. 

a grey jaw calls, auds press forward curiously. there too comes the croak of a raven, and hope bubbles. pressing forward, she moves toward the distant calls, certain some prize should await her at the other end. a storm threatens, and she makes haste to find the potential meal before the coming snow veils it from her.