Swiftcurrent Creek i didn't want you to hear that shake in my voice, my pain is my own

A snap of twigs and the gentle pitter-patter of paws earns her attention. A swivel of her head makes way for the form of another wolf of the Creek, one she hadn't seen before. Ivory and feathery, unsure in her footing, but joyous in her croons. 
Are you tryn'a come over here? Wren shouts, landing her forepaws on the edge of a slimy limestone boulder. S'easier if you walk along the rocks. In plunderous moves, she hops from one rock to another; and of course, she's unable to land without having gotten her toes wet. She smiles at her anyway.