The stars outnumber every grain of sand— burn through the endless hush, each one a distant furnace carving heat into the dark. The octopus has nine brains. Three hearts push blue blood through skin that changes color, through arms that taste and think— it pours itself through a gap no wider than its eye. A cloud can weigh a million pounds and still move like thought— slow and wordless, dragging shadow across hill without ever touching ground. In winter, the shrew folds inward— its bones, its brain, drawn tight as a fist of fur, smaller, smaller, until the cold forgets it. None of them need names for their miracles. The world performs its strange math on the great stage, forever forward, while we scribble at margins, trying to catch lightning before it floats away.
