These Markings Are Distinct

We are in a magic dance faster than time. All singing and ablaze, blurred in a silent mirror. A singular roar of mountains purged from earth in fountains glow...begins our chours. We live as events to breach our reason like a lost call from an early conch shell, signaling a maiden whale's flight. Away the whale's spout glistens in oil trying to spray the moon. A single bird falls beside an acorn shivering
from what it knows. Slowly, shadows of field-worn icicles begin to fade, with the winter sting of open-eyed stars; winking at our ignorance.