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.
A Horse With No Name
2 hours ago