ALT Cownose A flapping tapestry, leathery pockets unstitch, become capes, pageantry. Ten thousand rays slot into chainmail. Waves of spearheads, gold teeth, shark scales; a fever, but without frenzy or fight. Instead, a slow procession, silently scooping water, nudging forward with snouts, not upturned in snobbish airs, but bovine benevolence. They are a festival of kites, tails swaying like strings. A trove of irregular coins, green and grey and gleaming. This is pilgrimage, the journey genetic: they follow ancestral urges home. I wish I knew what it means to be this certain.