Kael Moffat
This is to the giant red ones who swallow themselves like snakes and then shatter like hot glass, glowing fragments spraying out into the night. I watch your slow deaths from fields of brittle tares, from cold stones on mountain tops, and from the sands that hold the ocean in its bounds. I wonder what it's like to die alone in the cold, fleeing an unseen point of explosion—an explosion that fed the suns, fired the planets like clay pots, and gave the birds their wings.