Duck Lake I like driving backwards in the fog

A gentle chuff—her eyes now seeking the glance of the stranger before she began to wade closer to her, muzzle lifting to scent the air of the stranger. Every part of her being called for her to simply cut the interlude short, to leave. It would be better that way.

But Meadow could not continue to do what she had done most of her life, and with a few more strides, the ashen arrow began to close the distance between the two, testing the other's reaction. The ducks long forgotten for now, if the dark woman had not left yet on account of Meadow's flounder, perhaps conversation could be had.