The Tangle “Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

blossom's gaze flitted about their small enclave. sunlight peered down through branches of bramble, illuminating each light step she took forth:

bemusement stole over miette, who had never heard such a song breathed to life. it reminded her of the hum of the ocean -- distant first, then carrying pitch and timbre until it was blossom's own melody come to life.

and the way she moved! even the thorns seemed to give way, their sharp ends bowing to each graceful arc.

miette followed, the rough-shod oliver to blossom's nureyev. dat makes you move funny. 'ow do you and your mom beat up trespassahs by dancin'?