streched over mountains on countless mounted mares, sweet sighs of collapse over ranges of caves an derangements made among hermits in their homes. pouring moonlight broths of dust and depletion of shadow over the lit up scape of trees at their feet, the riders climb a thousand misted climes in search of totemism's truths, far above roots of soil or branches of life. Raven trees call, beckon them back, as their woman makes ready to leap into the stars. She lights up her hair and face with the fire of moonlight and flings herself, falling fast into a newborn shadow of dawn. The sun is spreading, and her realm is dying. The horsemen ride off, leaving noone to catch her, as she plummets to the ground - to nature's begginings, to grow her tree another night.