Some Fae

Some fae are handsome like long grass gone to seed.

Some fae are pretty like dandelions thick and yellow open in the morning sun. Close brethren of those kind of fae are full-moon-orbed and puffed; softer than spider silk, they are ready to float, and get in the way.  But despite all their annoyance, these fae are sweet, like ripeness.

Then there are my favorite fae

because they are the most like you and me

and are the most industrious,

though, not the sweetest

and they steal.

These fae spend their nights building rain clouds.

They weave sacks from the shed of fur off the bodies of moths, collection sacks. In these sacks, they catch the down draft from the flight of black night beetles who pollinate the moon flowers. These puffs of air are thick with sticky gold particulate and the fae fill the sacks to half-billowing.

Next, they must harvest the tiny tears of morning glory flowers. The first step in this process is to procure something very sharp.

While wasps sleep soundly in their nests, these fae enter, holding their breath and hovering their feet, totally silent. They take their positions like soldiers - one fae to each wasp. All at once, on a count of three, they rip the stingers from the wasps’ abdomens, thereby, and most unfortunately, leaving the wasps completely defenseless. An easy fae escape ensues.

These fae then, in military style, find the great swaths of morning glory vines bountiful with tightly spiraled flowers that are waiting for the sunrise. These fae then, in military style, pierce the tightly spiraled, sleeping morning glory flowers that, in their painful waking, shed tiny tears.

Each tear is efficiently collected and now their collection sacks do become full with a billow and slosh. All that is left to do is the spinning.

They tie the sacks to one another’s throats then pair themselves,

hold hands,

and spin,

leaning their bodies away from each other, hands tight, toes touching. 

The centrifugal force sets the sacks aloft.

Regrettably, the end of the spinning has a tendency to cause the tethers of the sack to decapitate the heads of the spinning fae. Each head leaves each body with a pop and a whistle. As the fae bodies crinkle, their sacks remain aloft and float off- exactly like clouds - in all directions.

The clouds are fine and misting.

The clouds hover every morning, so fine one cannot see them without a series of very special lenses made of quartz stacked in a telescoping tube.  

What can be seen is the morning dew.