• The village seemed peaceful and soothing in the night. Owls played their didgeridoos, and frogs drummed away in the distance beyond the trees. Painted rooftops glistened with the first wash of spring. Removed from the scene of routinely pulled dolls and carts the land watched in amazement as the show repeated itself day after day. Held in place by its balcony of bored of sitting land that arched to get that one spot in its back, the land stretched to the silent line of wild berry bushes. Beyond the dots of colour lay a stream teeming with fish, bordered by greens of all shades. The fragrance of wild flowers called from the trees as the winds echoed their plea. In the arms of the wind, cradled with utmost care of silence, laughter sat. Hushed by the ever-helping frogs, owls and fish, kept secret from the dolls of the painting below, and heard only when the moon shone blue, or else when night stopped breathing and all lay silent— perhaps even then only if caught by a carefully searching ear.
    _______________________

    You venture through the streets towards the forest kept safe beyond the hill. Tonight, of all nights you seek the myth of those trees. Over the hill, across the land and to the berry bushes you step. Follow the trees inward and around their bends, take care not to tread the homes of your host, for even as we speak life breathes below ground. The path turns right and moves on, but you follow the whispers deeper. You veer left and beyond the aged trunks of spruce, oak and pine. The ground loses its sense of cleanliness and you take heed of brambles and vines bent to trip the unwary. The trees thin and you face the screen of moss and vines, sprinkled with the wandering flower. Beyond them dance lights of azure, mauve and cherry. Each bubble holds a figurine of minuscule detail and delicate lines. Dressed in forest cloth of their respective colour they dance and sing, laugh and play. Their wings, fragile and gas like, emanate a glitter of light. The wind dances along and carries the laughter to you, the sound not faint now to your attuned and near ear.

    The moon, blue on this night, reflects over a basin in the midst of it all. Held in place upon a stone pedestal, the basin depicts that which perfect doll children take amusement in as tales of the night. The scene, so long kept veiled, shall remain as you make your way back across the hidden path. Past the cooing stream, through the wild berry bushes, across the spectator land and over the arched balcony, you pick the way to your painted dolls and carts. There you walk, satisfied in seeing the hidden, hearing the muted, and knowing the truth. As you sleep smiling, they dance, and will forever dance, in their flickers of laughter, safe, at least until the next three years when another will follow their calls and see.