A metamorphosis.
As the time-tapestry continues to be woven, a new thread introduces itself.
I am not a farm girl, nor even a country girl--but a woods girl, with lichen for skin and leaves gracing tangled hair. I am old as the hills. The elders called me "dryad". If you blink you may miss me. But if you sit quietly under the old oak, I may one day appear for you.
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