Blackfoot Forest cutting into flesh till the loop returns

Mother.
She had grown to recognize that voice, the one that always spoke to her. Those eyes of spring-yellow, always so cold and yet enticing all the same.
Unmoving from her place in the grass, her tail twitches into a slow, malcontent thump. Leave me be!
These words have little bearing to a child her age, hardly even four weeks old — a plump little jellybean wrought in shades of dark, only the lightest hints of estranged russet beginning to seep through. But that russet was her birthright; a mark of alienation, a mark of godspeak; something that said perhaps she would not be the woman mother wanted her to be.
Or maybe she would. Her paws lift up as they tuck beneath her chin, soft, round belly exposed in a display of submission. Don't be mad!