Witch's Marsh collected fifteen gold-wing'd bees, tremulous buzzing

Lost in thought she does not note the other's approach for a moment, starting when she does finally notice her. Smoothing ruffled fur back down she tilts her head, curious about her silence, wondering if she is waiting for Poet to initiate conversation or if she is ... merely observing (strange, perhaps, but the ex-priestess has done stranger in truth.) 

"The summer makes me nostalgic," Poet says at last, breaking the comfortable silence resting between them. She looks back towards Bearclaw once more, towards her old abandoned altar's home, and sighs, releasing some pent up emotion she'd been holding on to still. She'd never gotten to place her marigolds. There will be time in the future for marigolds. "Do you live near, or are you a traveler as well?"