The sky is cracked open—
A jagged mirror spilling light.
They call it an omen,
But I am already dreaming.

(In my dream, the rivers run backwards,
Carrying lost names to the sea.
A girl stands on the shore, waiting—
Her hands cupped, her eyes closed.
“It is not too late”, she whispers.)
“But you must learn to listen.”

I wake to silence,
But the rivers still hum beneath my skin.