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And welcome to you, Man the mortal! The hawthorn’s leaves murmured in reply.
The rain had stopped; the sun was burning through the clouds. Fairleaf watched the man as he laughed and hurried on toward the back door to the Inn. Moving carefully away from the flowers who now turned there faces toward the light, Fairleaf inched slowly toward the side window of the groundskeeper’s cottage.
There, busy over a steaming pot, was the dark haired woman. There were long rectangles of cloth on the table near her. What sort of strange stew is she making? thought Fairleaf. The hawthorn bent a little closer to the steamy window for a clearer view, a stray branch tip scraping against it ever so lightly as she did so.
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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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