By Matthew Petit, Contributing WriterMy love,is a little beast crouchingin the woods near a grove. The sycamore trees yawn at her presence;the sun dapples against her brown fur. When I visit her, she holds out her black hands,cupped, wanting a crumb. Instead, I give her an apple. Do you like it? No, she says, it is not a crumb. It is sweeter. But it is not a crumb.