He does claw around the cage; a lion in prowl, tenderly moaning the rumble of throat, and while taming himself for the prey, that song remains silent to all but to his own ears, the beckoning song, meant for her, or -- it. Mellifluous drippings of his tongue trickle into her ear, she does not know, no, not yet. She does not feel, not yet. Receptive dulcet eyes penetrate between wary glances from the safety of grass; tall blades, bendable blades, dull blades, breakable blades. There is only one reason why she breathes the scents entwined surreptitiously into the wind.