Honeyed Pasture Primrose

Reverie giggled a little at that, because it only made sense. She blended because she was made for it — spun of gold and fire in a place where the tall grasses danced with the wolves. She stretched out her forelegs and hinds simultaneously, flattening some of the grass around her to give a better view of the man who seemed to be collecting the gilded blades.
Her ears pulled forward as she studied the bundle, and she cast a curious glance at him. His eyes were bright and pretty, a familiar hue; everything about this day reminded her of where she had come from. Mother Rain. And at that thought Reverie wondered, briefly, what made the rains still fall in absence of their Mother.