Following the sounds of drum and fiddle, I tiptoed down the stairs, unobtrusive as a shadow into my back yard.
They cavorted and capered in the moonbeam, flickers of color and movement. Tiny people, translucent dresses and just the hint of rapidly beating wings on the females and the jolly little men in verdant square-cut coats and jauntily cocked hats. Passing hand to hand in a ring to a joyous and unearthly reel.
Some noise alerted them. The music ceased abruptly. The last of them vanished through a gap in the fence.
Only the circle of toadstools was left.
In response to this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt: