“You not from ‘round’ here, are you?”         Sam turned to find a brown-haired mousy little girl peering over his shoulder.  “How would you know that?”         “I ain’t seen ya before.  That means you...

A flock of sailing fiddlers flyDown flowing fountain in the skySeven-fold they fair my eyeAs life so faintly passes bySeven-fold the fearless fliersFinger through the fiery breeze,Symphonic plumage ever whiterFeathered phantom melodiesFlying, flying, never dyingTo each, the cool breeze...