Our trees are full of stars. Someone has made nets of them, cast them over branches where they gleam like the winter ghosts of leaves, and I can only suppose that this someone is fishing for hearts.
I know about the trees because I go out in the dark - at night for medicine, hot chocolate, such things; in the morning to photograph the sun rising out of the ocean as if I might at last get evidence that it is a thing made of fish bones and pearls and the photophores of Stauroteuthis syrtensis, woven by the King of Love into a crown for the goddess. I suppose I want to capture the heart behind the mechanisms of the world.
Sometimes it's easier to believe in a wild god romancing the earth than it is to believe there are lovely people out there who think of stranding trees with stars. I know they exist, I see their light (literally), and I'd like to tell them how they give me hope in this world of tree-cutters and root-pullers, just as the rising sun does.