It's Peter S. Beagle, in true lyrical form, gentle, wry, humorous, melancholic with a little bit of action."The sky was the color of mercury, mushy as a bruise.""As an afterthought, he also screamed "'Kreegaaahh!' at the top of his lungs, for the first time since he was eleven years old, jumping off of his parents' bed, which was the bank of the Limpopo River, onto his cousin Mary Margaret Louise, who was a crocodile.""His mouth was badly swollen, but his style was already beginning to regenerate itself, spinning pink-and-white self-assurance before Farrell's eyes, as a lizard grows new limbs.""She turned her back; as she did so, Farrell felt a curious desolation pass over him--a fox-fierce little autumn wind of abandonment and loss that might have blown out of his childhood, when sorrows were all the same size and came and went without ever explaining themselves."