Read by K.C. Trommer
Suppose everything depends on being loved by the others. When you root in the night-heap you are special to them: they see your coat as though it were hung across the moon to dry, and they love you. What they believe is that they live by the sharp of your teeth; it's true — everything which comes to them goes first through the cool industry of your watch, and those legs all smaller things run before. If you love them, you hunt. If they love you, it is best that you forget it, when a doe tacks hard into the wash of the stream, and where your kind has always been going is exactly where you are — that gentle bed, doing what you love. There is no single word for the charity of your smile.