To which all the little flowers sang. Yes! They were growing. They used to be so small that not even bees would come to see them. In their infancy, they had been but points of light, between the ringlets in the moss, and the tree had been dearly afraid to let them leave besides.

It was a lot, and it rushed, perhaps flowed more in the sentiment, a symphony of being and images all water color gentle slipping back to one voice. ::Humans can't always stay. And that's fine. But, humans tell us about wonderful things~.:: That ending on trills of laughter and please.