She skips down the gravel road, her thin dress rustling in the wind. She whistles and the trees take up the merry chorus. Everything she touches turns to red and gold. She inhales. She exhales. The fallen leaves join her dance. The old barn shivers, shielding his precious cargo from her impish ways. None can see her, but they all know she’s there. She tickles the old cow’s ear and laughs as it vainly tries to swish her away. Suddenly tender, she foxtrots through the fields, tucking the grass to bed, kissing them goodnight, singing them a lullaby. Then she’s back to her wild romp. The farmer’s broken fence can’t hold her; the air won’t stop her. She skims up the hill, her bare feet leaving no imprint on the cold ground. And there she dances, there she turns, and there she’ll spin 'til mother comes home.