The avalanche took the burrow-slope at dusk, and its small sleepers are still falling — slow as snow, dreaming all the way down. Across the gap where the slope used to be, two keepers hold one woven line, the last span the valley owns. What lands must be carried to the burrow mouths that remain: not thrown, not hurried — tilted, the way a bowl is tilted, until sleep rolls home. They do not wake when they are carried well. That is how you know.