piosenniel wanders in late to the party, having spent the wee hours of the night and morning conversing with an elf from the netherlands . . . smoothing down her short, shiny green dress with the swirly skirt just right for dancing, she glances around in hopes of finding some old friends.
'do my ears betray me,' she murmurs to herself. 'I think I hear the strains of a Clampett ditty come to Middle Earth! The voice, though, is lovely . . . and how rightly the lutist does the Appalachia banjo-picking style!''And, look! There goes a wondrous woman in a shirt from Scarborough Faire and boots from across the sea - Spanish boots of Spanish leather!'
The breeze from the west ruffles the short, raven curls of her hair, pinioned somewhat by the coronet of bright red holly berries nestled amidst dark green leaves.
Spying a group of hobbits dancing with increasing energy and abandon in a springle ring, she feels the familiar itching in her feet to join them. Their feet fly, bodies twirl and leap, arms in arabesques of pure grace beckon her. She runs to take her turn in the center of the ring, head thrown back, laughing in the sheer delight of the moment.
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Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.
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