Born in the never-night of Arctic summer,
They come from a distant, different world
Of ever dawn and ever day. Yelping
Hounds on high, harnessed to the wind.
Team after team of ivory thread
Stitching the gray November sky above the farm,
Pulling white winter down from the North.
Drawn by the invisible, flying toward the sun,
Feathered snowflakes that will not melt,
Filling the air with wild sounds and
Me with an earthbound wonder of
What it would be to live in perpetual light.
