A Measure of Routine

Bree makes its way into the noonday light. In one corner of the village one can hear the gallop of hooves: Horses of men and ponies of hobbits on the cobblestones. On another street musicians strum lyres and sing fables of a forgotten time. A colorful flag flaps in the strong northern breeze. It's colors, bright red and white bounce in the resplendent sun. A bell tolls. The day shifts into a measure of routine. A smell of lunchtime sausages fades from the afternoon as folks resume their chores. Bree is alive with the breath of stability. She is what she is.