Grace Dane Mazur

Philippa knew that Eliza was unusual: Animals worshipped her. She attracted them even though she dressed like a heretic. Even that dog of the Cohens had followed her out of the woods. The girl must give off some smell or vibration that attracted the beasts to her. But that she should then turn around and follow them, taking care of distemper or peering into hooves and mouths and reaching into unthinkable places for difficult births?

What would you like, black or green?""Green, please. It has an earthier taste.""What is you name?""Leila. It means 'evening,' but I would rather have a morning name. I was at the other party, but I like your party better.""I see. Cup or mug?""Cup, please. The best china. Gold-rimmed, no flowers. No cracks or chips. It's okay. I don't break things.

They do that in Japan, you know. Rather a lot.""Poems to foxes?""Perhaps, but I mean they're always tying white paper on strings around trees- it looks as though the trees have necklaces or garter belts. Are you sure your witch friend wasn't Japanese? Their spirit world is full of foxes. They are called kitsune, and some are divine and some are mischievous or wicked.

Haloes of heat shimmer from the guests and their hosts. The candles burn brighter. The plump flies of dusk now congregate around the plates of cheese and crackers on the wooden table. From the cut glass bowl of children's punch, sweet rosy fumes spiral up into the air.

It was one of those yearning and gentle days of late spring, suddenly warm, when the air turns greenish yellow, so thick is it with pollen and bloom.

He thought of the smoked glass one was supposed to use to look at the sun during an eclipse. Surely this much beauty must be an evolutionary mistake: To steal the breath of onlookers cannot lead to increase of the human species. Perhaps such beauty didn't have anything to do with humans. Perhaps he was merely standing in the path of something else, caught in the crossfire of the gods as they signal with their sacred mirrors.

Will your friend allow curry powder on her raw foods?""Not allowed, my dear," said Nat Morrill. "Curry powder is already a mixture, thus impure. In any case, she does not allow one to sprinkle something on top of something else.""This is worse than kashruth," Leah said. "What about sushi?""Not allowed. It's raw, but still, it's a combination, because of the rice, the seaweed.""Sashimi?""Fine. But no joining, no marriage of the fish with soy sauce or pickled ginger, no green shiso leaf.

Seen from above, the canopy of oak and make and pine is pierced by the pond, which looks back at you like some green eye, knowing and ancient. The air above the pond dives into clefts of coolness, then rises up at the warmth of the margins. Down the path, filigrees of blackflies and mosquitos dance in the heat waves given off by men and women and their domestic fires. Joyous bats dart about.

I will take you and keep you and give you light and dark wine and perhaps children. In spring, after we have planted, I will sit and watch the warm rains with you on the covered porch. In summer and in fall I will walk with you in the gardens. And when the snows of winter come, I will wrap us both in a quilt of starry darkness.

The dome of coolness above the pond throbs with croaking. Dragonflies and damselflies pierce the slanting light that burnishes the surface of the water with fire. At the edges frogs wait to spring.