So she walked and walked. Her fingers brushed against the green leaves of plants all around her and they spilled their color over onto her hands, down their vines and into the sand. Her hair was brown as the bark of a maple tree; it blew under her lips and she sang, she sang as she walked. The river was nearer now and the sound of its water pounding over hard, brutal, but horribly still rocks mingled with her song.
