by Vasilios Moschouris Les Argonautes It started slowly, crept in from the edges, and so nobody in the little valley town noticed the old tree was losing its color until it hung in a shimmering cloud above its leaves, shifting from green into blue into violet into red and back again, and its body, its roots and branches, cut a sharp silhouette into the world. They cordoned it off, but still the townsfolk gathered in crowded rings around the perimeter fence to watch the color