Tracing lines across the sky,
in every language that we know
we sing songs with silent words,
caught in the clouds and hanging low.
On the feathered wings of birds
carried aloft and swept afar,
some faint trace we thought we heard
through some door we’d left ajar.

Why not weave on through the woods
where the dark begins to gather?
We could scatter light behind us,
or set the trees afire if you’d rather.
Carrying the tiniest motes of dust
in our pockets to save for later,
we never cared to cause a fuss
but the forest’s too far gone to save her.