He leaps from branch to branch like a cat, bending them no more than the wind. That's important. That's part of his job. The Lords of the Seasons can't be everywhere at once; they've grander and more terrible matters to attend to, anyway. He sniffs each leaf, licks some, touches others. When he finds a ripe one, he brings out his tiny silver shears. Snip, snip. Flutter, flutter.
Down below, a human shuffles along with a rake. Scrape, scrape, and in minutes the human undoes all his hard work. He sighs, leaps lightly to the next branch, and begins again.
The Man Who Ate His Own Head
22 hours ago