Old waters may speak by pushing stones. Where the stars swim, the speaking waters push stones and fires. Lights. I have a lightning hand, and a hand made of wings. One of these eyes was from the first eye there ever was. The other one is mine. Most of them arc, if you are careful about these things. We had been waiting it seemed, forever. I think some of them died. When it emerged, we gasped to see how delicate and beautiful it was. Like a living jewel of ancient waters. I remember seeing her there. By the wind. We all fell out of that impossible moment together. This lightning spilled into us, and then, well, the old waters push stones. Black waters push fires that collect stones, too.