The sky is clearing and the view of Catess Mror’s consort, the moon, has come into view. I stand dry-bathed in its one eyed gaze and recall the story of how the consort when snapping back the head of Catess Mror in the arch of lust-heat was grabbed by the bird of prey, its talon catching the consort’s left eye. I remember how in these ancient times, they took across the plains darting though the shadows of savananah trees’ twisted shadows mixing their shadows and tails and forms, using the trees in the wind to confuse their outlines. Once stopped alertness still jerked every fibre until they added the light agility of bird to their birthright dexterity, they resumed their union and brought forth the pantheon litter to be never lost to history or our reverence.