Towards the first drip of melting spring he sets his prow. He bleeds faith into the slush and moss, tightly clamps his eyes and begs a miracle of the seed; the robin waits to chase the crow. There are mothers and fathers in his skin as far back as he can dream. As far back as he can remember there are those that mutter like him and chew their thumbs down to the bone. He wakes in fits and sleeps between worlds. He cradles his newborn who speaks the language of the trees to him before he is a minute old. He is stirred and well-favored by the prancing doe, who bids him “fill your father’s crane-skin bag with magic tools and follow me”. Together they rustle to the land of their forbears. Together they take on grand human forms. Together, they draft a brand-new legend of a pristine world.