I ran into a sprite today in the meadows of Sunderland. She was lying on her belly under a tree, bouncing her heels in the air and looking off at the mountain, in the middle of a field of lady’s thumb and grass gone to seed. My path took me between her and the object of her vantage. I was eating an ice cream cone with rainbow sprinkles on the verge of melting, and wouldn’t have seen her at all if she hadn’t waved.
I couldn’t be sure if the wave was meant for me or the mountain, but I took a chance and returned it. It was breezy, and her wispy auburn hair danced up around her face like a little tornado.
“It’s a nice day,” she said.
“Lovely,” I said, and went on.
I’m not the sort to meddle in the affairs of the Otherworld.