This field had been mowed not long before, and the stubble was pink and gold in the afternoon light.
The field was broad, and skirted on the west by a thick wood.

Lucina, holding her green parasol, crossed the field to the wood.

The stubble was hot to her feet, white butterflies flew in her face, rusty-winged things hurled themselves in her path, like shrill completions from some mill of insect life.
All along the wood there was a border of shadow.

Lucina kept close to the trees, and so down the field.

A faint, cool dampness stole out from the depths of the wood and tempered the heat for the width of its shade.