To cross time, the winds shed their feathers and became winged horses.

No one has seen them—not directly—

but in the faded corridors of time they’ve already outrun,

they’ve left behind vast hoofprints,

breaking through all that once seemed immovable.

And still they linger,

curved like crescent moons hanging in the dark.

They resemble ridgelines layered upon ridgelines,

or clusters of bubbles rising from the black seafloor—

fragments of breath trying to reach the surface.

Whatever they are,

only echoes remain,

ringing through the silence just beyond grasp.