Sitting on the rocks at the top of the hill, Tilly's posture went suddenly rigid with concentration. I followed her gaze, then saw what she had spied...

...white cows moving through a meadow full of bluebells near the border of the woods. Tilly is usually wary of the creatures (an attitude we encourage here in farm country, where she mustn't ever chase the cows or sheep), so although she raced down the hill in great excitement, she kept a sensible safe distance from them...

...while the cows drifted slowly through the flowers, gentle ladies glowing white within a sea of blue and green.

But when she heard me coming up behind her, Tilly grew bold and decided to inch closer...and then just a little closer still...

...until a big black rock in the grass suddenly moved, and the pup nearly jumped out of her skin! It wasn't a rock, it was a black-and-white bull, glaring down at her as if to say, "Yeah, that's right, come closer, little doggie. Come closer and make my day."

After that, Tilly stuck close to my side, her ears slicked back, seal-like, in her chagrin. We turned back down the hill again, following a narrow sheep path toward home...wading through flowers...raising clouds of golden butterflies with each step we took.

The butterflies were feeding on the delicate nectar of bluebells, gorse, stitchwort, and campion....

They brushed against us as we passed through, lighting in my hair and on my hands, darting from girl to dog to flower, little whispers of color and wind.

No wonder I write fantasy, I thought as we reached our own back gate again. They say that you should write about what you know. And what I know is that the world is full of magic.