In bed, comfortably cocooned in wool against the winter solstice, I watch the night sky beyond my window. Half awake, I wonder at the myriad stars exploding into life, forming shifting shapes over endless eons as I drift off to sleep, to dream of past ages. Other lives are conjured, when sacred women reclined in marble halls upon silk hauled from legendary lands, whispering of wealth and of powerful gods arising under auspicious signs in the distant Eternal City. And, of nomad clans, sheltered in smoke-darkened tents, taking strong coffee as they trace star patterns across woven carpets with tanned fingers, to map the travels of far flung families while desert sands pitch orange blizzards. And seeing as I fall deeper into slumber, the evening when the Cave Mother, crouching on rushes, fed the first fire, her eyes like two glowing embers reflecting the hungry, spreading heat. In my dream, I see her, alert to night sounds, as the yet unnamed evening star rises, like a twin to her new flames, as she meditates on times beyond count, when the night sky is changed and her descendants will sleep as upon clouds, under named stars, dreaming of her.