Swiftcurrent Creek fel

The answering call was met with a squint. Feel things? She would be two come April, and yet no man had ever made her feel things yet; her family had coaxed her out of her last heat (coaxed was not the word for it) so early she did not yet know the burning fire of Spring. 

Licking her chops, Kasatka answered a little breathlessly: I already feel things, naive, not the sort of things he meant—and yet her voice, that she sang back, betrayed her interest and intrigue both. She wandered, darting toward the direction his song had come from.