Red spotted mythical beast across a full back

The kirin came down the pass on the third night of the thaw, and I have not slept properly since. You will say I dreamed it, as you said of the otter in the millrace, but Mother saw it too. It was red as a lacquered bowl and freckled all over with gold, and its mane curled like sea-foam blown inland. Where its hooves touched the wet stones, little flames of green and yellow sprang up and died again, and their smoke hung about the cloud like threads someone had forgotten to cut.

Behind it came the serpent, if serpent is the word. Old Aoki at the toll-house swears it is the same creature that took the bridge from the river in my grandfather's time, only now it was thinner, trailing its tail down the rock face and through the pines. It did not look at us. It looked at the flames, then laughed the way water laughs over stones, and went on up toward the cloud-line where the road disappears.

I went up after it at dawn with the mule and a lantern, though Mother begged me not to. The mule would not climb past the bend. What I found there were scorch marks on the lichen in the shape of small hooves, and one gold spot the size of a coin, still warm as bread. I have wrapped it in wool and am posting it to you, because you never believe my letters. I think it means the snow will leave us early this year.

Write soon. Tell me whether the sea really is as grey as they say.

Your sister, Hana