It is interred, in the end, just like in the beginning. Framing by moss transforms it: it is a hoof, a paw, a claw; someone met in the woods, someone left by the port; a pair of eyes, a tongue wrapped in fat. It is a reliquary left for some you who will pass by in vestments that sing of past places, a rare being. It will grow — unnoticed — in the oaks of others, held in place by leaves.