One got a certain feel about her the minute she walked by. The mood of the dreary country road played into the overall appearance of her. It seemed that she would not be her without the road, and the road would not be itself without her. The road was lined by oaks and sycamores. They looked graceful and comforting by day, but by night they achieved the dramatic effect of watchtowers looming over a soon-to-be prisoner. That was the way she walked--the way of a prisoner. One could not tell what color her hair was--it blended into the artificial night created by the storm. It moved as the sycamores and oaks did--sometimes steadily, sometimes violently, but always moving--moving with the wind; the current of the storm. She was a mere sillouette until a sudden burst of lightning illuminated her features. Her eyes were what stuck out the most--they were clear blue--like ice, like lightning. She was stickly thin, like the far reaching branches of the sycamores. Her cheekbones were high and protruded through her skin, which looked like a leaf in fall ready to drop. Her lips were thin also--if it hadn't been for her attire, she would have been a tree in winter. She wore very loose clothes--a big puffy black shirt and a black skirt. The shirt looked like a menacing raincloud, blowing in the wind. The skirt, driven by the sheer force of the wind, made thunderous claps whenever it moved. Lightning flashed again, allowing for a better look; as one realized it wasn't a girl at all, but a young sapling, struggling for survival.