The night sky stretches,
like a beautiful quilt,
above the world,
holding the pinpoints of light we call stars.

Scientists tell us these stars are our like our sun,
big burning balls of fire.
But I know the truth.
The stars are living.

They swim through the cool airlessness of our space,
giant tails pushing the nothingness out behind them.
They are whales.
They dive and twirl and dance through the ocean sky,
And they call to each other,
in sad aching serenade,
disguised as silence.

They dip through the cosmos,
propelling themselves through the Milky Way.
Their deep eyes see the expanse of nothingness and they race,
uncontained through the lightyears.
Their bodies glow white in the distance,
leaving their ghosts behind.

And from our yards,
enveloped in their deep black sea,
we observe their majesty and effortless motion.
And they descend,
bowing their heads so we may reach out,
and slowly,
with the caution of a small child,
touch the stars.