A short story
She watches a family of crows hop in the grass. Five. There’s usually five, she thinks. Her forehead furrows and eyes narrow as she scrutinizes the tall grasses bending in the wind. There! There is the fifth!
She breathes again. If one had been lost, her feet would have grown long roots deep into the ground and she would wait, wait until the moon shed silver across the pasture and owls hooted.