Big-tall sandstone slab with stars above

And, finally, the heavens
open,
and I am writing by only their light 
and memory,
with the fireflies' occasional
bursting.
I see little: these words are 
but a gleam,
and while the machine of man tries to
crush me
river waves are clapping, lent
from a Gaia given firmament 
in the ground.
Sweet mortality.
The firefly has a question:
"are you dreaming?"
Of her? Yes. I am.
She's lovely.