In the beginning
blinking in an inky cosmos,
atoms spun webs of luminescent matter
weaving loose threads into light.
Below this madness on scoured winter mornings
Fox takes flight to her root haven at the edge of a ravine.
All night long she has hunted creatures drawn to darkness
who skitter and flutter back into the shadows at dawn.
Fox’s world has no beginning or end;
a sweeping turn of a great wheel spoked with stars
kindles the snowy footprints of Fox’s terrain.
While Fox sleeps clouds sail across a cold sky,
their silvery linings waiting to trick doomsday.
We labor on an anvil that strikes sparks that could turn stone into jewels,
only we have forgotten that it’s all just dust to dust
since we are made of stars.