The snowy expanses catch the twinkles of the coldest starry night
the world has ever seen.
I must stop my crunching steps,
to listen for what it is I see happening before me.
There on the crusted-over stretches,
dance patterns that come from
the music of starlight falling.
The fatal arcs -
staining the air a deep cosmic purple upon the background of bruised night -
appear as subtle streamers
of light's thinnest pure sinews.
They bloom for miles into quiet mushroom clouds
as they hit and fray upward -
the tattered results of starlight's silent collisions with ice crystals.
This violet violence is the most pleasant of its kind,
beckoning the unblinking black eyes of nervous snow bunnies
and resting wanderers.
Don't be a mouse, be a lion
