Wings flutter between the stars, and Aquila yearns for his love Lyra. Of course, the Book of Songs had different names for them. Nameless, they yearn. She, weeping, bends to her loom, weaving for the sake of the heavens (for children of gods are no more free than children of men), he tends his great water ox that lows as mournfully as he.
Cranes circle, moths whisper. How soon until the new year and a bridge of wings between them? Herd-Boy, Weaver-Girl. Without them, the universe unwinds. Between one year and another is a long time to yearn.
Once a year, a plane crossed the western sky. Birds died in engines for the sake of this bridge of wings. You are silent, like a stone, unreadable as the stars. Between us, a web stretches, but not of my making, and I bend my head, waiting for you, weeping.
You are beyond this bridge, and I cannot see your face to know. When we meet, we grieve, or I grieve. There is nothing but the dark, fathomless eyes of a cow in your face. My face is silent, like a stone.
What happens in a year?
Each year, cranes lock their wings, and songbirds obey the dictates of heaven, and a bridge of feathers unites the Herd-Boy and the Weaver-Girl. They spring up from their labors and rush across the bridge, eager for a glimpse or for warm, tangled fingers before the dawn. The world falls apart in that brief darkness.
When they meet in the middle atop a bird of prey, she touches his face. "Are you mine?" she asks.
The songbirds falter, the raptor cries out in agony. The Milky Way rushes in again.
A year passes.