The Swing's Sighing Song: Ballad

Her swing was swinging in the sweet, sweet sighing of the sycamore boughs when he came a'calling on her papa. Her swing it swung and sung and sighed like lovebirds do in their cages. And she sighed when his shadow fell twixt the shadows oft the branches. And her heart sang when his hand raised her chin to look at him full on. 'Twas only then she saw the long mean rifle gun a-hangin' by his side. Gone huntin'? she asked, hoping with all her heart he'd smile that easy smile and say, sure thing, honey. But his face was still all solemn as a preacher saying prayers, and she felt a slide of something along her cheek that might'a been a tear.


Inspiration: I wanted to try and shift my third-person voice a little, and I just had an image of a long-haired mountain girl on a swing while tree branches swayed above her.
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: Flash fiction.
Notes: Think of old ghost stories or ballads and the patterns they set up. The Highwayman et al. Also? The title sucks.