How do we hear what speaks in echoes?
if we hush our breath
can we hear the ancestors dance?
is that my ancestor’s skirt rustling in the wind?
who but the gods can tell
with their journals full of secrets
like Laplace and his demon
chronicling memories of the past
creating infinite space for future dreams
sits scrawling lazily
tiny meager mighty things
spreads their wings and shoots
directly into the sun
on earth we call it lightning
as their wings fall from the clouds
feathers scatter then burn
before ever reaching ground