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Fairleaf watched as the Elf left the Inn and walked across the dirt yard toward the stable. She thought he might go in, that perhaps he was sleeping in the loft. But he passed on by the double doors and was lost in the darkness on the far side of the building.
She longed to see where he was going. The man near her feet was asleep. The Elf’s attention was engaged elsewhere. Drawing her rooty toes up from the soft ground, Fairleaf inched back ward, away from the Elf and Man. Into the dark shadows of a small coppice of trees near the stable.
Moving carefully, she brushed her limbs and leaves along those of the trees and shrubs, greeting them as she passed.
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When Summer warms the hanging fruit and burns the berry brown/When straw is gold, and ear is white, and harvest comes to town/When honey spills, and apple swells, though wind be in the West/I'll linger here beneath the Sun, because my land is best!
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