Thousand: Three Hundred Twenty-Seven

the party is breaking up, and walking off with her things. In no hurry, it looks easy enough to catch up, Butternut puts another slice of apple in her mouth, draws the string of the pouch and drops it into the pocket of her skirt. She recaps the remaining paints, slides them into her other pocket, then, laying the palette on her head, she steps, stone by polished stone, out of the creek bed. Twice she squats delicately to keep the palette balanced while picking up a promising portrait holder. The leaf-strewn grass of the bank squishes under her hop.