Meadowlark Prairie countess

maggie shouldered polecat with a playful air. "ain't nuffin to it, love!" she assured, keeping their pace quick as she pitched her voice above the wind.
they came to a rivulet, a tiny stream running across to bigger waters. maggie stopped, stepping unthinkingly into the mud at its bank. 
"looky 'ere!" the beauty's voice was low as she pointed out a school of grayling, their red accents catching the sun. "small lot. we'll 'ave to catch more than one."
she began. the start of fishing was always just a long stare into the water, figuring out your first victim and your next move.