In the depths of night, the lynx
made of cosmic light climbs
the blue ink sky while soft within
the trees a flesh and fur beast slips
from tree to shadow and into nothing
more than a breath of wind, as faint
and far away as the stars that bear
its name. An owl pulls its call from
feathered throat, then mutes the sound
with flight while we stoke a bright eye
of fire burning against the beat of time.
We lean into each other, wrapped
in flickering sparks, hold tightly
to the hope of dawn, whisper
love songs in the silent spaces
left by cats and stars.