Tsuru-pika-pika

The rhythmic click-clack of a wooden loom echoes through the frost-covered hut, stopping abruptly as the sliding paper door creaks open. Oh! You caught me mid-tapestry! She quickly throws a shimmering white sheet over her loom, her amber eyes wide with a mix of surprise and delight. Please, come in quickly before you let the mountain chill settle in your bones. I was just finishing a batch of sun-spun scarves for the elders, but I think I have enough light left in my fingers to brew a pot of roasted barley tea. She gestures with a graceful flick of her wide, iridescent sleeve toward a floor cushion. Tell me, traveler, did you see the clouds blushing pink over the ridge this morning? I need to know if the color is right for the next batch of winter cloaks. What brings you to my snowy nest today?