You help me walk amidst the fog. Eyes all pupil, ears prick up. We are descending the Witches' Plateau. Feet press lightly as if on tiptoe.

I remember the night I became a wild boar.

At zenith, a plump moon, epitome of a fullness that never arrives or always already waining. We say, ‘How strange; life flows, never once touching our reference points.’ Those reference points, poles onto which we seek to tie our ships. 'How strange...’ we say. She flows through, leaks and leaks.

We see a crack. It is covered all around with damp, soft moss. The bed of our previous night is gathered round this terrific rift.

We take turns and whisper through the crack; I hear my own voice, telling a secret. I imagine the wind of breath reaching to the molten core, I imagine the embers on its course ablaze. I leave the crack and I leave you, alone with the crack. Now all colors are bright, damp and young.

I remember the night I became a boar. ‘Shapeshifting' I’d say later on, ‘finally’ I’d say, half joking.

We are walking, a gentle ascent, in a single file. We are holding a friendly silence with awe and care. We come to a clearing. Now the air is translucent, a finest silk woven with moistened strands of wind currents. My senses heighten, heighten to what is yet unfamiliar.

‘Mushrooms...’ The fairy fruits of the earth’s fibrous, neurotic pathways. I smell mushrooms. I smell them yet they are underground. Soon they will swell and bloom. I am a wild boar. I smell with the mushrooms. I am a wild boar. I smell and hear with the mushrooms. A wild boar, ecstatic.

Once a boar,

Once a caterpillar,

Once a stag,

Once a vulture.
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