Hushed Willows yes my husband's gone to golden green to do some business there

"Esme?" Riley called, an ear bent towards the wavering strands of willow leaves as wind whispered through them. Damn, was she elusive.

Already, Esme had given him the slip twice in the last twenty four hours. Riley had lost her scent a mile or so back, but pressed on hopelessly, persistently.

No answer came, besides the soft sigh of summer -- the drone of bugs, of wind-rattled leaves. Riley set his back against a tall willow and skulked, licking at his sore toes as he tried to think of where to search next.