Porcupine Ridge Dancing bears, painted wings

The stars lit alive.

Nutu counted them one by one on soft dirt. The trees were blacker than night against the white of moonlight. 

Leaves blew overhead in a rustle. Crickets chirped about and sang into the depths of her ears. Did they sing the same wherever one went? Had their tunes ever changed with the rest of the world?

The sky lights did not seem to change.

Nor might they ever.