Her moods fills in swirls like the tides around Mount Saint Michel. Pools of water in line with the moon swell, silent in their pulse as if God the Almighty were pouring himself a cup. Playfully now it spills curling tentacles over the sand, fills holes, grasps at souls, for just one moment the light changes, shadows hold their breath. Shadows play a dark tune that highlights in bold. In bold a white-tipped tail glints on a landscape lined in silver – silver-lined, silver specked, pecking particles of light that reflect the cold that comes creeping. The air is numb, the birds dumb – hush, not a sound. But first a frantic bath, a waterfall gush. Birds head down, to huddle, to huddle on the ground. They know. They understand. They know not to question nature. Believe the mountains of man-made despair – hills upon rolling hills of careless history. House upon house of souls holding on. Only the cow cares, the cow grazing on grass, that spirals like Balinese paddy fields – is that where the moon drained the water from? That’s what they say, anyway: blame the moon they tell the trees. That is the reason you are left abandoned to mark your own grave in a toothpick landscape like a porcupine itching with patches of psoriasis that burn black, black as a coconut that lands on a woman’s head and wipes clean her existence, leaving her boy an orphan. And yet the line unravels the earth, grabs a breath, warmth rises through the worm’s hole which draws the nose of the white-tipped beagle, that meandering vacuum-cleaner that doesn’t stop.