Hovering at a Low Altitudeby Dahlia Ravikovitchtranslated by Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld I am not here. I am on those craggy eastern hills streaked with ice where grass doesn't grow and a sweeping shadow overruns the slope. A little shepherd girl with a herd of goats, black goats, emerges suddenly from an unseen tent. She won't live out the day, that girl, in the pasture. I am not here. Inside the gaping mouth of the mountain a red globe flares, not yet a sun. A lesion of frost, flushed and sickly, revolves in that maw. And the little one rose so early to go to the pasture. She doesn't walk with neck outstretched and wanton glances. She doesn't paint her eyes with kohl. She doesn't ask, Whence cometh my help. I am not here. I've been in the mountains many days now. The light will not scorch me. The frost cannot touch me. Nothing can amaze me now. I've seen worse things in my life. I tuck my dress tight around my legs and hover very close to the ground. What ever was she thinking, that girl? Wild to look at, unwashed. For a moment she crouches down. Her cheeks soft silk, frostbite on the back of her hand. She seems distracted, but no, in fact she's alert. She still has a few hours left. But that's hardly the object of my meditations. My thoughts, soft as down, cushion me comfortably. I've found a very simple method, not so much as a foot-breadth on land and not flying, either— hovering at a low altitude. But as day tends toward noon, many hours after sunrise, that man makes his way up the mountain. He looks innocent enough. The girl is right there, near him, not another soul around. And if she runs for cover, or cries out— there's no place to hide in the mountains. I am not here. I'm above those savage mountain ranges in the farthest reaches of the East. No need to elaborate. With a single hurling thrust one can hover and whirl about with the speed of the wind. Can make a getaway and persuade myself: I haven't seen a thing. And the little one, her eyes start from their sockets, her palate is dry as a potsherd, when a hard hand grasps her hair, gripping her without a shred of pity.