Deep in the forest, on nights when the moon waxes amber and the mists grow tangible, you may be fortunate enough to see the hummingfolk dance.

If you have not seen them for yourselves, they may be hard to imagine; not the fae creatures their name implies, but no less magical for their beetle-like reality.

They ride the forest air on shimmering wings as they emerge from their wooden burrows for a brief flurry of adept socialisation.

By the dawn, they are burrowed once more, to rest and recuperate. 

Once it was thought that this was a mating ritual, the arousal of the hummingfolk predicating the end of their short lives and the proliferation of the next generation. But their absence is no cycle of death and rebirth, merely the social exhaustion of the introvert.

The hummingfolk will fly again, when the moon is right; until then, they will enjoy their own company.