The old goat sighed, lifting first one hoof then another over the remains of the seasons. He had tried to invoke a world, embody his words.
And yes, spring summer fall winter took form, wheeled in cycles and everywhere the plants and little animals rejoiced, colors and music floated through the leaves, browns and greens became a medley of sound in the half light, became wind and in the midst of all stood a man and a woman, opening themselves like flowers to each other, and his words made mountains and streams, the whurling bark of trees traced vowels and consonants, roots plunged deep into pure sound.
Then a scream shattered the scene.
And what remained?
An old goat and his song.
The leaves of autumn littered the ground.