“She wants to be flowers, but you make her owls. You must not complain, then, if she goes hunting.”

“Crysta, to her credit, never complained—it wasn’t her way. Yes, she would ask and remind nicely, and persistently, until she got what she wanted. But complain? No.”

“Man, Wren. I’m impressed. No woman ever sent flowers to thank me. (Serre)Don’t be that impressed. I’m thinking she didn’t send flowers to thank him. One flower says thank you. This many says she thought he was dead. Or that she killed him. Hmm...I’m thinking, put a tiger in her tank and that didn’t quit rev her up. What she needs is to go hunting for bear. (Dev)”

“She loves me. She must, because she left flowers in the fridge from her date. She knows how I love flower salad.”

“She laughed when there was no joke. She danced when there was no music. She had no friends, yet she was the friendliest person in school.In her answers in class, she often spoke of sea horses and stars, but she did not know what a football was...She was elusive. She was today. She was tomorrow. She was the faintest scent of a cactus flower, the flitting shadow of an elf owl. We did not know what to make of her. In our minds we tried to pin her to a corkboard like a butterfly, but the pin merely went through and away she flew.”

“Not for her the cruel, delicate luxury of choice, the indolent, cat-and-mouse pastimes of the hearth-rug. No Penelope she; she must hunt in the forest.”