Ursa

Here, where the night spills itself

over fields untouched by the city’s hum,

where the silence is vast, thick with stillness,

the stars gather like elders.

They speak in light,

whisper old stories in languages of fire.

Ursa and Orion, their arms stretch wide,

pointing to the edges of memory,

to myths born before our small voices rose.

The night sky is an open book,

its pages endless and dark,

marked with glowing ink

that only patience can read.

Time bends here,

the stars, unhurried,

spin their tales of gods and wanderers,

of lovers lost and found again,

of ships crossing seas blacker than ink.

I hear them, these ancient lights,

and they know my name.

They’ve known all of us, always.

And though the stories are old,

they ask us to listen anew.