It stands like a cottage or a cart, immobile, too big to be a breathing creature. In the inky prism of shadow the white, orange blotched flanks glimmer. The sand of the bull court rages white in the afternoon sun. In the gloom an ear moves, slightly. It is the quiet time of day.
Bare feet make a small business-like sound on the stone pavement.
The palace is silent. In high airless rooms there is slack flesh and slow breathing. The sleepers have departed to other places and the bodies of the absent dreamers breathe sunkenly. A bead of sweat breaks into a rivulet. Across the sandy court, beneath a fringed parasol the queen is watching the bull.