Sweep You Off Your Feet

March's ears flicked as her mother's voiced broke the quiet ambience, the whistling of wind, the occasional clatter of rocks. The canyon was empty, filled only with harsh summer light and swirling currents. Perhaps the air, as active and flowing as water, gave this place its name. Or perhaps it was nothing but a cruel misnomer, a promise to a thirsty traveller with the intent of never being fulfilled. A black comedy.

She made her way to her mother, ever the obedient child. As she came into view, she wondered idley if her mother had been built for these deserts. She knew how much importance she gave hygiene, and she knew how quickly sand and dirt and mud clogged the empty spaces between fur. March's coat had always seemed flat and coarse compared to Ina's.

"Mom?" She questioned simply, unclear on the purpose of this meeting, unsure of the meaning it held. She looked to her for answers.