Her music sweeps over the fields like springtime rain and brings color to the land. It happens every year after the frost has gone.
Seeds awaken to her song and push their way through the soil. They find her hovering above the earth playing her flute. Her eyes closed, a peaceful look rests on her face. And they, once seeds, now sprouts, bloom.
She returns each day to renew the dry winter grasses and coax leaves from sleeping buds. The birds join in chorus.
Enchanted by her spell, trees make fruit and reach as high as they can into the sky. They turn their leaves to gold and release them in the fall.
In the winter, once the leaves have fallen and flown away, she whistles soft and low in a lullaby. She calls the winds down from the mountains and whispers, “Sing now, friends. Paint the world in crystals.”
They say she sleeps then, but I’ve heard her still in the moonlight and on the hilltops.
The villagers have searched for centuries in alleys and the forest far beyond hoping to see her. To this day, she remains only a legend. The stuff of bedtime stories. Still, they all believe. For how else could the flowers grow so lovely?
What do you think, Friend? Who is she and how does this story end?
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