And she knew it, too.

That was why she would not let me come near her.

I forgot that she was truly the Swift One, and that in the art of climbing she had been my teacher.

I pursued her from tree to tree, and ever she eluded me, peeping back at me with kindly eyes, making soft sounds, and dancing and leaping and teetering before me just out of reach.

The more she eluded me, the more I wanted to catch her, and the lengthening shadows of the afternoon bore witness to the futility of my effort.
As I pursued her, or sometimes rested in an adjoining tree and watched her, I noticed the change in her.