Sin
Poor the stream striving by mouthfuls down-acre, and sad the deer that must creep toward what little is left. I sinned. I made them exist, coveted the heartish breastplate of white fur that so wholly resembled feathers and belonged to creatures neither lovely nor immortal, wanted to replace their horrible breathing with the dark tenor of water, fleshy and moving, though even the small grottos carved by spring’s rushes are empty now as honeycombs.