seeing stars
They construct a silver pool, swim as stones through pine branches, push back needles like a cat's fur shaking off water and carry what is left of the sky as bones hitched together into a stream.
It never tires. The stars, still, are never really still.
And what pieces you can hold, the bits of the ones you once loved and felt remorse for, like the last bits of newleaf light you mapped on the frozen, leaf-bare ground until worn, sleepless, breath-rattled, fading. They are up there.
And someday they fall to the earth again.