Soon it will be cold enough to follow my shadows into and beyond their sources. Soon the reflection of the water will take me back in waves, to the liquid language that was before creation. Soon, the silence will lay its eggs in me and I will gladly nurture their produce. As lightning disappears, so, too, shall I depart. A ladder uncreated in fits and sparks. The ways my eyes saw will color the future as ghosts of my wonder. The little flowers so like ribbons on a gift. The Sun.