Soon under the glancing moon, the blue fox stood before them. I will tell you why said the blue fox as he approached. Why should they have a purpose? For they were wild things. Projecting to them what he wanted to project.īut why should they have a leader? Why should they not roam like wild things? For they were wild things. Motionless but ready to leap, to run, to bite. They sat at the border between the desert and the City. Even though it meant nothing more to them than the fireflies.įor one night there came a flare of blue across the heavens and a nimble quicksilver thought in their heads that was both familiar and strange. Sometimes looked up at the stars distant and for a moment contemplated what lay beyond. Played games in the aftermath, searched for hidden water, dug their own shallow wells. Savored the crunch of wing, the collapse of carapace. One from another in the night they snapped at the winking rescue lights of giant fireflies. Would never become weathered down because it was already what it was meant to become. They were the color of sand, which might shift and stall, pass between the paws unnoticed, but would never not be there. How there was nothing but a lightness to that. Must trust in how thought danced from mind to mind. Now they must dream where they could and trust in the lookout who would not sleep. Now they must come to rest on half-collapsed roofs and in the shadows of the great rocks out in the desert. When the ancient seabed had been green with reeds and lakes and the low salt-poisoned trees with their thick moss-encrusted limbs upon which they might sleep. So they navigated two worlds: the new and the old. So they ran with a memory of the City without buildings. So they ran threaded through the breaches, found the seams.
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