Traversing the frozen stones
Each a cold black void
An emptiness between planets and suns
An oblique line across dark ground
Perhaps an irregular orbit
Visible only to some higher intelligence

Each step reveals
A thousand miniature suns
Reflected in shimmering frost
That clings to dormant still grass
Brightening the dim grays
Of the predawn night

Could it foreshadow rebirth
From the Milky Way’s dark edge
To its bright center
An Asimov plot
Spoken in each footprint
Through the wintry morning