There was a time when the sunset came too fast.
The day would end in an instant—one blink, and the world was dark. The people had no time to finish their work, no time to sing, no time to say goodbye to the sun.
So Fox, clever and curious, watched the sky. He saw how the Sun slipped quickly behind the mountains each day—like a shy child, too afraid to linger.
Fox said, “If the Sun won’t stay… I’ll make her dance.”
The next morning, Fox climbed the highest dune, painted his fur with fire-red and dusk-gold, and waited. When the Sun began to fall, he darted across the horizon—fast, graceful, glowing.
The Sun saw him and slowed, curious.
Fox leapt and twirled, weaving patterns in the sky.
The Sun laughed—and for the first time, she paused.
And so, the first sunset was born—not a fall, but a farewell. A moment of beauty. A time to breathe.
To this day, when the sky turns orange and the light stretches long, the Elders smile and say:
“Fox is dancing again. He’s buying us a little more time.”
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