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And so, you begin to examine, as, finding a small mass fallen on a book, you lay it down, explore the almost weightless thing, head fuzzed, eyes dark and stopped as a period under eyebrows pronged and lifted from the face, wings luminous and doubled (the underneath set smaller, perhaps for steering) and two long and delicate legs the color of straw extend down from the body, crossed in a gesture neat as any matron's, while the upper bones tuck, protective, to the chest; and you cup this bit of shed bark lightly in your palm, detritus of a world that hunts and fills, and hold it until your hand startles, until the long antennae, lowered, continue to reach.

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