Whitefish River she fears I'll be a servant to my history

she presses a paw to the sprigs, gently pushing them down only to watch them spring up again. they're alive, then, at at the tips of the emerald stalks, something is beginning to bloom. she extends her muzzle towards it, giving the plant a cautious sniff as she considers talking a stalk home to show her mother. no, it'd only—

she starts, badly, at the voice. twisting, she managed to step on one of the tiny sprigs of green; crushing it into the snow. her heart drops, expression morphing into despair. it is as if she's crushed something animate and undeserving; her gaze grows alarming watery. one of the very first signs of life, and she's killed it. she's a murder. 

she springs back, and so does the feeble flower; albeit rather crookedly, and only managing a forty-five-degree angle. but even more pressing than her newly discovered murderous tendencies is the arrival of a stranger, to which she offers a wavering, "me?" nothing else nearby seems to have a face, however, and so shortly follows a "hello."