Honeyed Pasture i've got a good feeling; it doesn't happen very often

When she squints her eyes, beneath the dappled glow of peach lies a rustle in the grass. A patch of yarrows reveals the tawny figure of a young deer fawn, wide-eyed and lonesome, crouched for safety and unknowingly alerting the pair to its presence with a shrieking call for a mother that was not there, and perhaps would not be looking. 
How convenient. 
Look, Wren gestures with a point of her nose, creeping to the slope of the hill with a tail that sways high above her haunches. Her nostrils flare. Y'think we can catch it?