A tawny owl beats down the dark ride. Many points of light, visible to him though I cannot see them, gleam in the grass and the bracken like a dew of fallen stars beneath the shadow of his wings. Something shrieks as the owl descends, bringing the endless darkness that follows the shreds of fire. Somewhere a life hangs limp; the still blood, in its continent of fur, hanging from the cold talons that have drawn the last flame. The death of an animal is very quiet, whether it is the slow suffocation of disease or the sudden leap from life of the slain. The owl’s hollow voice floats like a sail
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