Beneath the dark of the new moon, I, the Promethean Puck, pour alcohol distilled from grain over the stones of the river. Chased by fire, it flows blue into fissures and ignites organic debris with a spectrum of color. The wind spins the flames like an ecstatic dervish. Still, my momentary constellations do not sway the obsidian darkness of the river canyon. Under the undisputed reign of the stars, my gift to the night is barely a whisper.
