Big Salmon Lake Why are you hanging on so tight

periane smiled softly, humming a low note beneath her breath—an echo of old songs, fading sweetly into the air between them.
i never mind good company, tiuttuk, she said, gesturing with her paw for the girl to come closer. her voice was quiet, yet warm—like summer sun through church glass. sit here, if you’d like. i'm periane.
the fox pelt lay between them, damp from its wash, carefully stretched upon the stone. periane’s paw hovered above a bundle of wildflowers—lavender, fireweed, sweetgrass—then she began to gently press them into the red fur, moving slow and mindful.
many do it differently, i think, she went on, brushing the crushed petals deeper with the flat of her paw. some bury herbs in the ground and let the scent rise. others dry the skin first. but i like this. she pressed a little more firmly. i rub the fresh flowers into its furs after its wash… then, to dry.
she tilted her head, eyes soft. it carries the memory of bloom longer, this way.