Once, a girl lived in a double-wide trailer on ranchland, beneath a wide white sky tumbled with clouds. The Prophet, a scowling crow of a man, presided over everyone and everything. When the girl wasn’t praying or busy with chores, she’d spin in meadows dancing with bees and dandelions, until Father called her name from the porch: “Agnes, back in the house.”
I had random.org select a page and it selected page 31.
Peter turned away and watched Bud’s canoe disappear inside the snow. Over by the shore, something disturbed the pines. Snow tumbled from a bough and a pale hand withdrew round the back of a tree trunk. Peter opened his mouth to reassure his dad that he could take whatever the committee decided, but the words weren’t there any more than the feelings was. When he looked back across the water at the tree, a woman-shaped thing was standing there.
“Flora took pleasure in the delicacy of her approach and studied the ways of the smallest, sweetest blooms she could find, tiny pimpernels and forget-me-nots hiding in the pockets of the fields. The energy of the sun on her body and the joy of foraging filled her soul. She flew the fields and gathered until the light began to fade and she heard the sound of her forager sisters’ wings turning for home. Then she joined them.”