So it turns out 

falling stars aren’t suns gone dark

but rocks on fire, an alchemy of dust 

meeting sky 

and only appear to fall 

by streaking toward or slipping away

to cross some threshold, a veil hidden 

until just that moment

the way cranes lift

their slender, dense bodies 

from marshy ice pools

to meet a thin spring sunlight

where their rattle-bone songs

begin to spark and crackle, shooting

across sky 

like smoke

from a fire, hidden

until just that moment 

when sky 

and dust become kin.

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