A leopard came upon a circle
just as another leopard was leaving.
They passed without speaking—
one disappearing into the old road,
the other stepping softly
into what came next.
Inside, a green river
slipped over milk-white stones.
The leopard drank.
The water tasted of rain,
root, mineral and mountain—
cold enough to make her whiskers tremble.
She followed it.
Among a bed of flowers
sat a many-armed goddess,
still as morning,
a pale green luna moth
resting near her.
Around them rose the warm perfume
of petals and damp moss.
Her hands seemed to know
what hands were made for—
to gather,
to scatter,
to hold,
to release,
and sometimes
to remain open.
The leopard moved on.
At the edge of the garden
the sweetness changed.
Smoke.
Rust.
Scorched earth.
Wire curled through the soil.
An old television stared blindly
from a heap of forgotten things.
And there,
from the dark remains,
rose a mushroom—
blue as twilight after rain,
its tender cap pushing through
what had been abandoned.
The leopard lowered her nose.
The earth smelled black and wet.
Alive.
Beneath her paws,
unseen threads were already weaving
the ruined things
back into the world.
Then she came to fire.
Copper light trembled against her spotted coat.
Resin cracked in the heat.
Smoke carried the bitter sweetness
of burning wood.
And within the flames
a goddess danced.
Her body turned through gold and ember
as though she knew a secret
the fire could not consume.
Nearby,
an old god waited among twisted wire,
half ruin,
half relic,
his ancient face illuminated
by the flames.
The leopard pulled one strand of wire
from the earth
and carried it away.
At the bottom of the circle
a monk knelt quietly.
His robes were made
of dried rose petals and copper—
dusty perfume,
green metal,
the memory of flowers.
The leopard settled beside him.
For a while
there was only the river,
the warmth of dying embers,
the cool earth beneath her belly,
and the luna moth
opening its velvet-green wings
to the night.
Above them,
two enormous eyes watched—
one drifting closed in shadow,
one wide open in the light.
By morning
the ashes had cooled.
Mist rested upon the stones.
The river smelled of moss and rain.
And from the black earth
beside the wreckage,
something green
had begun.
The leopard touched her nose
to the new leaves.
Then she rose
and followed the river farther
into the circle,
leaving the little green thing
exactly where it was—
with rain above it,
dark earth beneath it,
and all the room in the world
to become.
Baba Yaga The Wise 
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