Oystercatcher Tide Pools Unsweetened Lemonade

it had been thoughtless to approach the other wolf while they feast; she notes this too late, nevertheless drawing abruptly to a halt and swiping a tongue across her lips in bashful apology. 

curiosity is all, she promises, toffee gaze hovering respectfully upon the yearling. they are a strange sort, standoffish and androgynous— but it is not within her nature to judge or assume. she uses her long muzzle to point toward the oysters. i have never seen such food in my homeland.

the closest approximation she can think of are the scuttling arthropods of the desert, their hard exteriors protecting soft meat beneath. they're no more than a snack in hard times. . .but a hungry stomach never discriminates.

she remains standing where she is, feeling somewhat chilly in the bracing autumn wind. my name is tziporah, the sighthound offers, and smiles in greeting. she wonders (and doubts) that the gesture will be returned. i am just passing through. do you know this land well?