Pad, pad of tiny feet.
Beat, beat of tiny wing.
Off Imp go into summer sun,
Patrols need be done.

Sweat of brow as cross through wood,
Check each mark, print, and smell.
Birds chirp, insects sing, and beasts cry out-
Nothing amiss, rhythm of wilds steady thrum.

As sun start to hang low,
Cool wind bring some relief.
Song of own through bough and grass,
Helping pace Imp further steps.

Swing up, up, up-
The Imp find branch to perch.
Watch the daylight slowly dim,
Long day done, patrol complete.

Exhale breathe with Ithmia,
Soak in evening chill. Rest.
Time to fill belly and feel refreshed.
Soon must start all again - duty never end.

Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 23rd of Celes, in the year 21 AC.