One of these is true.All the animals were making love. It was the day for it. All the otheranimals but a wolf hid, listening to the slide trombone of his ownbreath. Who lay in a dim room, quiet but for the simmerof breaths of the lovers outside. It was their day. There was no lock on theroom. Only a belief that he was meant to lie in the silence. Breathe in thedim. Not meant to question. No howling. Noquestions. He slept, warmed by the high fever of his belief.Once upon a time there were bodies strewn and none to gather them. Itwas a massacre. That's why we remember the day. Death had shot andshot and gotten away with it. That's what survivorssaid. Warmed by the high fever of their beliefIt was one single arrow of passion, and Eros was good with it. A winner.Whom it struck—loved and was loved in return. Until it hurt the heart.No questions were allowed. The poison of love was aperfect killer. Everyone wanted to taste the poison. Warmed by the highfever of their belief.Once upon a time there was a peaceful body born who loved everyoneand everything on earth and in the air. No one had taught her. She wouldlie down in silence on a road or a field to stop bullets orsouls. She believed in the power of her thought. If warriors came withflags and swords and bombs and God on their side—stop! said her nakedwoman body, paused in the path of their attacks. She's onfire, observers saw. And loving her, stop! said the covens of owls, stop,said a murder of crows, stop, said eyes from branches to the east,branches to the west. Stop, said the hawk who loved wars. Stopmurmured the dove who knew the hawk very well. And her naked bodywhispered, God does not love warriors. A whisper that pierced theirhearts that wanted to be loved by their own God. There,whispered the woman, looking to a sky she believed she saw . . . do youknow what to do now, God? Warmed by the high fever of her belief.One of these is true. Or almost. A gift from the winter.