Inspired by a question and a drabble by Dana.

March 25 SR 1419

Perhaps it was the lark, singing high above as she sought out new-green spring weeds along the farm lane, suitable for tea-making. Perhaps it was the daffodils, bright and brave against the bleak background of the trees fallen all along the Bywater Road. Perhaps it is the pristine whiteness of the innocent fleecy clouds against the freshly-washed azure sky. What else can account for the unaccountable lightness of her heart, the song that threatens to burst from her lips, betraying her to the suspicious ruffians searching for sedition in the marketplace?

All she knows is... her Samwise is coming home.