Dew plip-plops off clustered needles in frantic escapes of water. It runs over the sharp branches and slips down trees’ boles. It freshens the pines’ sweet-bladed scents and goads the squirrels to shelter under their furry hindquarters. It revitalizes some and terrifies others. Some droplets trickle into the loamy soil, waiting, and spread the damp, but the rest remain anchored up here with me. 
      I drink deeply of the pebbled water caught in my palms; my hand wraps around a pine needle for balance as I center myself in time’s tick and chipmunks’ chirps. At times like this, at the end of dawn’s rain, my heart is slow and my blood sluggish from the still-wintry stars. Branches spread out from my perch in a dark stretch of slumbering limbs, and I echo the patient drops of water in their solemn gurgles. My voice chimes out, higher than the rain, as the mists sway from night to day. I can begin to taste the curls of sunshine tossed through the forest. I flick my wings in slight annoyance as I consider the clouds. Soon they will waver and my morning will be let back in, arm-in-arm with the springtime. 
      But the air remains damp and my eyes are waxy with rest as I bend to touch the drooping fluff of my cotton seed shoes. They become heavy overnight, and I crave the soft rose and crocus petals that I will coax soon into delicate slippers. The squirrels will help me find the buds among last season’s rotting acorns, splotchy colors that lighten the forest’s monotonous growth. They will find their encouragement to brave the wet in the light that will stroke along their fur as morning comes. Their reward will rest in a sugared song of thanks that I will fly just for them. After all, a fairy needs her spring shoes like she needs her sleepy dew drops, and I will sing for them.