Little whisperings curled up, danced up, sparkled up the spiraling dust of dancing hopes multicolored scintillescent winding up out of the bedewed wet grass between the bull's feet.
The black bull stood and did not move and did not seem to recognize the whisperings of the laughing tracery sifting and sparkling softly about his hooves.
He did not move. He stood mighty upon his hill in the night and flared his nostrils seeking, sensing, knowing the night, prescribing it. Guarding his great heart.
Little bubblings rushing up, gigglings, refreshing the night there on the thresholds of sound and touch.
Giggling whispers like light slippers over the tops of the leaves of grass. Bending them, bouncing on their tensile strengths, their freshness, and giving more back than they ever took.
Winding their veils and winking dust about them in their dance the little ones, the old ones, the ever ones, twirled up out of the bull's grass and lilted low over the leaf tops of the night grass and descended, skimming the hill, trimming it, and dancing and skirling in their whispering laughing song they zipped and dipped delightfully as they approached the house.
They whispered, they hushed and shushed and pushed one another and giggled as they did, teased and sang and shook their lightful dust upon each other, twirled all upside any way in the blue night in the black night not yet silver with moon and thus their night left to them for them to make by coloring any way they played.
They hushed and flushed the airy dust ways to the house and rose and twirled flitting all around it.
They weren't looking for a way in. They knew that.
For a time they were upon the roof, looping patterns in many lights and lined upon the ridgepole danced heel and toe toe and heel to the ones who piped for them perched crosslegged on the chimney top.
Far away, in the bull's black eye, little lights danced, in many colors, many little points of light.
