A misty morning and a pheasant appears from the gloom, a croaking feathered prancer startling me and him. The mist fades and light reveals the fresh green leaves  of a shade as quickly come as it goes, but now it’s here. Now is spring.

The bluebells grow together for their annual ball, their dainty petals of the richest assortments of every shade between sapphire silk and velvet purple. Each one a study of intricacy in fabric and form.

The forest is their palace, their ceiling the skies beyond the smallest leaves where the birds hush by with whirling wings. Their songs and the wind are the music by which the dancers move in this spring time forest ball.