Quotes About Nature

Ninety feet over my head the canopy of ash and white basswood shivered the constant mountain breeze; it was never quiet, not even at night. I stood for a while and just listened.

In this light, her hair was the colr of sandstone. She was sandstone: a spire of rock rising from an otherwise featureless desert. No toeholds.

She saw more blood in the snow that winter than she had in the whole of her life.

It felt like a moment out of time, endless. The grass was pleasantly prickly against her thighs and arms. She stretched, wiggled, laughed: happy.

She left her hood down, letting the rain cling to her hair, wanting to hear while her body walked and her mind wandered.

She wiped her eyes, her not-blue eyes, and walked on through a drift of rain so fine it settled on her sleeve like dew.

Poison had made the world so beautiful.

She touched the pool and fell the echo of that faraway lake, the promise of all that was wide and bright and clear that she would one one day find.

The world turned, ripened, grew hotter and heavier.

She fell into a waking dream and on clear nights walked for miles on the world and in the woods.

I'm not pretty." "You don't need to be pretty. You're like lightning. Like a tide. Like a blizzard." "Something to run from." "Something to get caught up in. Somthing to remember for the rest of your life.

Sometimes I used my fingers, digging down into the rich dirt, feeling it push under my nails. No doubt I'd regret it later, but it was good to feel so much life under my hands.

She opened her mouth and let the wind take her breath away.

She closed her eyes, willing her vision to rise from the blood-spattered green mountainside.

Along the little river, kingfishers caught news and water beetlees, and on the big river when Hild walked with her mother and the queen-talking, as always, of wood and trade-she saw the pawprints of other kits.

Cei called more taunts, but she was smelling the wind and no longer listening.

The lake sometimes has a mind of its own; there's no telling how it might treat you.

Most of the women were frank in their assessment of the men, gossiping about which make a good husband, which good sport. Hild mostly listened to the birds.

She was smiling, an otter playing in a smoky waterfall. My face ached. It seemed I was smiling, too.

While she watched, she let her own feet find their way; she knew every root, every rut and hare scrape, every fallen bough in this glade.

Hidden in the leafy canopy, sometimes she stayed so still and quiet even the birds forgot she was there.

All she heard was a blackbird, far away, and the burble of the spring. She wondered where the water came from. She wondered this in British, the language of wild and secret places.

The green grass of Gwynedd was a better way to end than blind agony in a dark, close room.

Autumn blew, leaves fell, flames flickered, and song turned to war.