Phoenix Maplewood true like ice, true like fire

Sunday Morning picked her way after him to the river, placing her forelegs into the running water where the waters moved slower, interrupted by boulders and fallen trees, one of whose roots still remained deep in the earth, unready to relinquish their grip.

She gazed at the boulders and considered. Sunday Morning both drank and opened her mouth to let the water run through to cleanse her palette, cooling off and cleaning up (some) in one go. She was out of the waters before Mountain Stone, and shook out her furs thrice to free herself of the water that clung to her. She was about to head toward something else she had smelled, but in her peripheral came Mountain Stone. No, Mountain Boulder. He was no stone.

Again she leaned into him, huffing lowly as the dripping man wet what hadn't been touched by riverwater. She did not mind. Sunday stood and shook out her furs again for good measure, about to emit a noise of her own in turn.

But she quieted quickly. For even over the din of the river, she could hear the grasses shift where she stood closest to. An ear atop her head rotated, a radar, her steps muted as she slowly and softly stepped in its direction. No doubt the hare had heard them, close as they were... but they had the good fortune that it had not yet bolted. Yet. A quiet sniff, as she wondered if it was ill, though there were no signs of such the winds could foretell.