Fiorella was out on the land again today, having a wonderful time pulling rocks out of the ground and throwing them down the bowling-alley lane that she'd hacked out of the tangled woods with her pruners so su piedras would be nearer the entrada de las coches that she, as always, is shoring up so it doesn't wash out when la lluvia comes. There's something invigorating about hard physical work, and there's something inspiring about working in the woods, especially if one is all alone. Fio becomes a child again, a child who wonders about everything, a child who is sure there is a lost civilization under her feet, who talks to the rocks and the trees.
And they talk back. The trees are self-sacrificial, of course, but the rocks can be difficult. Fiorella is glad to report that they've finally gotten over their snit about Fio paying more attention to the gathering of la lena during the cold, hard winter, and are once again presenting themselves to her as candidates for driveway guard duty. They are worthy soldiers, and Fio can ask for no more.