Sequoia Coast [m] pineapple

he did not know what to do for her! the conversation of her body went on, he saw. did children choose the hour of their birth? what if they disagreed in the warm wet darkness they shared? 

she was rising, running from the shelter; he was on his feet, shouting "dancing fox!" in a paroxysm of terror. her small pale form beneath the moon was haunting, a silver ghost with nowhere to go.

the dreaming began then, just for a moment. as he stood in the entryway, watching the woman, wolf dreamer swore he saw tendrils rising from her body. 

threads.

as he glanced around, he saw each stunted tree pouring its own gold filaments into the air, each ice-caked stone. even the sea seemed to shimmer with thousands upon thousands of these threads.

life, Wolf whispered, and the dreamer held up his paw before disbelieving black eyes, and saw that he too that he gave off this gilt flax, and that the threads from him stretched to meet all the others traveling to the center of the sky, as if he were standing on a web.

you spun this dream. now bring her out of it.

when the man's soul returned, he was bending over dancing fox, catching the faintly sweet fragrance of the liquid which soaked her thighs. he could not have said how they got back to the snow cave, only that he lay her down inside and curled close.

"there is no escape, dancing fox. you cannot run from it. go beyond, go beyond," he whispered, glazed eyes round and luminous in the moonglow which now illuminated them both inside the shelter, argent in its halo around her belly.