Be weather, stone cold, and when the sun rises they do not see that
the streets shine beautifully, that they themselves are walking on stars and
flowing through the heart's chambers, an enigma of the bifurcated
hominid brain.

Spring's yellow eye glares down on mountaintops melting horizons
of snow, tons of mud then sliding down, choking Gaia's wild beauty,
flooding the route a posthuman being is frantically paddling across
a shoreless River Styx.