I follow him after the gathering breaks, partially to test my skills, but mostly because he’s captured my attention without the intention of doing so. Ordinarily I don’t waste time on others – especially those older than me, who seem so sure that they know everything. As I told Castor: I avoid. I have no need of their droning stories, or their alleged wisdom. But this one doesn’t seem to seek an audience. Rather, he stands back and watches, waits. I suspect that he wastes no words. But I could tell, while I watched him from the grass, that his mind was working, twisting on its ideas and considerations. There’s something going on behind that quiet face, those narrowed eyes. And for that reason, I want to know more about him.

It’s harder to stay hidden when he leave the grass, so I let him gain some distance before I move, and then stay parallel to his path, downwind. My awkward puppy gait does me no favors, but I’m fairly certain that I’m far enough away to keep from drawing attention to myself. He’s a blur of color in the field beyond me, and I’m a shadow in the trees on the outskirts of the clearing, taking careful steps so as not to make too much noise. Fall has taken its wrath out on the trees, though, and each footfall is made more challenging by the mass of leaves below me. I glance down to move over a limb, concentrating on my own path, and when I look up again he’s gone. I’ve lost my line of sight. My breath catches and I grumble wordlessly in frustration, scanning the terrain beyond the tree line in search of his golden form.