Behind the hills, beyond the ends of dirt roads, there are places like the beginning time when spirits inhabited all things. People were not always born in the usual manner. Seed was such a woman at the beginning, delivered from the split bole of a honey locust. Lightening struck the tree down, and from its thorny wood came a woman born whole, fully grown, motherless. She leaped from the womb of the tree and commenced to roam. A constant, restless stride carried her through a young land electric with sex.

Seed embraced a south wind. From that coupling was made the yellow cowslip flower of wet meadows. She mated with a dour rain. Their union gave the lowlands new grasses, wild and distant cousins of corn. Seed lay with dawn, and together they engendered a thousand-thousand tiny leaves of duckweed that floated coldly, indifferently across the swamp.

Seed came to know the waning moon, the cavern, the intermittent love of wet weather creeks. Each encounter brought fresh life out of her, and each fresh thing stayed where she whelped it. The woman moved on with constant, restless stride.

Seed reached the great river. She followed its banks down and down to the mud flats of the delta. There she found sea – green, glassy, and singing.

Vorhor_the_Green_Wave_by_Georges_Lacombe.jpgDeep water is a careless lover.

Sea’s high tide took her out to a salty bed that might have been her last.

Except for the appearance of a hero.

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