The silver boughs seem to acknowledge him. Even the hardwood of birches bends and sways, their rustling a kind of music for him. The eglantine and musk roses incline their blooms toward him. The land itself seems to breathe with him, as though he might turn the far-off mountains to clouds. He finishes a step, swift as a shadow. Then he looks at me. Not for me. At me. With a small, exact glance, he places me precisely where I stand. He smiles.
