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In the beginning was the silence, although not the true silence, the first silence, but the murmur of a million minute voices – the wind in long grass, the breath of the beehives, the catch-cries of the cats, the snores of so many marsupials – filling the air with something not seen for so long, something which might fill the silence and be a new beginning. She unfolds her leaves for the thousandth thousandth time since the beginning (or was it the end?), ending her night remembrance, her almost-endlessness from coast to coast dedicated to those that that left the metal and the plastic and the glass which she wears like jewellery, which itches at her even as she closes her green cloak over it, trying to balance her desire to preserve their memory with her instinct to eat their history. Although her own memory is long it is also unreliable, and she cannot now remember exactly when those that came before disappeared – one hundred hundred turns about the sun, perhaps? – but she does know that they were here and gone in the blink of an eye, and eventually that eye must blink again, and perhaps she is that eye; and so she watches very carefully, as the sun crowds the horizon, and creeps across her canopy towards one particular clearing. And as the sun strikes the space in the clearing, some small creature – whiskered, pouched, hunched – strikes stone against stone, as if it expects something to happen; and then something does happen, a sudden spark, a second chance, and second chances do not come often, she thinks, but then again, she is not entirely certain, because even for her it is so so hard to notice when history is happening, when all of history somehow happens in that second in the sun when the stone makes the spark.