The spider strings beads and sequins on silk threads. She stitches the days with the nights into a dress. She spins, pulls, weaves; she knits long sleeves for winter nights; short pleats, winter sleet; long veils, summer haze; and small pearl buttons for its naps. When the life dress is done, she places it on a wire hanger and hangs it from the crescent moon.

The boy climbs the spiral staircase inside his mother's ear. The steps are made of cast iron, tight and intricate, and he can only go up, up to the white cloud. Far away, his mother's dreams fly above the green field, a flock of cranes calling, searching, before heading to warmer climates.

Night and day, the crow and the seagull fly over the sea. The crow brings warships to my door. With a swish, the seagull turns them into fishing boats. Armies of fish move swords in the transparent water. I open the door to steps in sand. Tell me: are you gone fishing or off to war?