My words are carried
on the winter morning wind
echoing off the obsidian mound
and shattering in silver crystals
reflecting the frigid sun.
The barren moon recedes
as my son, the wolf, ravens
devouring knowledge of the world,
listening to the song of the dolphin.
She is a rose, soft petals fluttering
thorns poised to punish a misstep,
dangerous beauty.
He wears the feathers of the owl
staring into the night
fixing stars in their courses
holding gaseous orbs.
He sings to the bear
carrying the world
into its glacial den.
