The smell of deep and old darkness fills the air. It crackles and grinds, surfaces and dives back into the dark, the deep gold sheen of the bark spirals. This friction births warmth, and from that warmth grow antlers. From that warmth grow the deer.

A white, sharp shard cuts into the cream velvet, and as it touches the skin, dissolves. Then come more. It contracts the veins. The ground swallows the white, that's how it transforms itself rigid, cold: The cradle of the fawn. Everyone is born alone.

From the parting eyelids peek out thawed eyes. In the distance, trails of light prance in the dark with hushed noise. Aromatic scents fill the lungs. And silver threads, from which usually stars hang, lift the legs up to raise the tender body. Another inhale and the muscles bloom. Pebble hooves descend to the ground. The legs already know what to do - animated by the spark it was born of, it springs towards the other crown-bearers. The body stretches at the apex of the jump, warm velvet skin stretching across the bone and muscles.
The cold air encases the form. It will remember this shape, among all the others that came before.