They dug themselves out of the mountain ground by the hundreds, climbed high and split wide. Red-eyed crawled out of their own backs, soft, vulnerable and white, wings crumpled, to sit and darken and harden their final form black. Flew away to hum in a chorus of a hundred million tiny wooden bells chatter clacking love. Ground riddled with perfect holes, cast off skins and black bodies. Dogs and birds grew fat, as will the trees this and every seventeenth ring.