There is a mountain in the distance that waxes and wanes with the tides of the fickle black grass, bobbing, twisting, turning, a queer yellow peak with a rounded top, like the banana end of a sundae. He fancies it’s made of basket, when the nights are short and the cold almost catches him.
Every now and then, too, the land seems to grow suddenly, to the left and right, calculating a surge in population perhaps, or reveling in some celestial wind, as the entire world loops up in half rings at the sides, fluffing like a blanket before flapping back down again. Almost like the flight of an aviform.
But there are no birds as huge as a planet, and in those impossible mouths, no lavender jewels as big as satellites with greenish reddish stars inside like suns.
And the flash of red he thinks he sometimes sees against the black grass on the other side of the yellow peak is not a bowtie. It is the cold, playing tricks with his long toes and through his toes, his mind.
Tonight is one of those cold nights. But the black grass is warm; at night, especially lately, the feathery blades puff out the gold of metal pollen, like venerable fat fungi.
The horizon is turning gold, too.
Catching the yolk-light from the lavender egg currently hiding behind the yellow peak.
Soon, Hainishtymion forgets that he is naked, that he is pale and pale-haired and curled in the black grass, and turns over, his fists bunching loosely on tufts of the stuff.
Inevitably, his thumb, frequent and sleepy, sees fit to bum a stealthy ride past lip and gum to see the horses, and he sleeps.