Anything old, and for that matter anything round, was always absurdly beautiful for the little fox. With no one watching the moon, no voice or howl pursuing its eloquence in the sky, no voice but the cricking sound of the cold wind and the singing of crickets; the little fox hung on the other side…

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It was known among the wolves; among the mountain gatherers; it was known in the ancient temple, for the shamans of the forest whispered about her. And the morning of that day a canoe lay on the riverbank, too many things to question when Colossus went to rescue a war. There was no self-consciousness about…

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