Why didn’t she turn white? And what was she anyway, that sleek, furry black creature … a small animal, tail as long as she … seen for barely a moment on slabs of ice and snow beside a rocky stream? I thought her kind turned white to match this icy world. Did she come from a clan where that evolutionary device was extraneous? Did her folk get along just fine and elegantly sable against green shoots and daffodils, maple roots, apple blossoms, pine cones and pumpkins? Perhaps she and those like her had no reason to disguise. Generations after generations, they survived. In a world occasionally stainless steel, silver and ash white winter, they thrived. They’d found no reason to bleach a single and richly black hair. Originally published in heart Quarterly.