Morrison’s stories unfold like legends and somehow her simple, unadorned, language becomes richly poetic.
… she saw through the open door a slim ﬁgure in blue, gliding, with just a hint of a strut, down the path toward the road. One hand was pressed to the head to hold down the large hat against the warm June breeze. Even from the rear Nel could tell that it was Sula and that she was smiling; that something deep down in that litheness was amused. It would be ten years before they saw each other again, and their meeting would be thick with birds.
A literal event with metaphorical overtones. I read this many years ago, and it’s interesting to ﬁnd what stuck with me and what I feel will stick with me this time. The plain truth of the ending struck me anew.