silhouettes of children running in pastures

the reflection of their magic in the stars

broad, flat-orange colored buildings

against a violet night sky

stacks of aged books toppling over

heat glow of a hearth,

the heart of a home

a chair made by eager hands instead of machines

those hands seek foothills and mountains

the maker pounds his drum a preset number of beats

until his furry and fleshy body is covered in the tiny crawling things of the Earth

kindred will say prayers

and they will toss salt:

"he did not catch the biggest fish,

but he greeted the water every day"

his tinkerings are burnt as an offering

boys mount bicycles and disturb fresh topsoil where he rests

their sigil a circle by cigarette lighters from the cabs of old cars

burned into the creases of their arms

and they ride through pastures,

their magic reflected in the stars