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Perhaps it is the mouth of a river or the tense calm of a lake. That recurring territory. A landscape that breathes like the coastline, yielding to sleep. Between dream and nightmare. Between revelation and mystery.
The gaze emerges from the water and enters the clearing. Black sheep grazing calmly. The crow in the center knows what is going to happen.
Explosion. Peace is shattered. The swan thrown into the lake. Exhausted, dragged to the shore.
The raven approaches. It kisses her. Gravity is reversed: the swan flies backwards. An oyster emerges from the depths. The swan enters the oyster. It sinks.
Night falls. Twelve bonfires are lit on the shore. The sheep stand guard. The light from the fire illuminates the wait. A vigil. The darkness shelters.
Dawn breaks. The oyster emerges. The white swan appears. It spreads its wings. It rises to the zenith. It aligns itself with the sun.
Muta.
Descend transformed.
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