Do not cut the fir trees
He met her there, in the middle of a row of gigantic fir trees, tied up to a trunk, her bright colored skirt rolled up on her thighs, feathers and leaves and branches stuck like a crown in her hair, with big eyes, surely too big for her, and that barefaced look that wouldn't even frighten a doe.
He approached her, timidly, he asked, with that fainted voice of the novice journalist who isn't a professional yet, the voice of a guy who might get fired soon enough.
"Are you ?"
And she was.