When sky shares its alphabet, light is the first and last letter of its lasting language. Every cloud is a syllable speaking the shape of a thousand and more things. Insects, comets, and kites teach us the words of the here and gone. New lexicons are built from rain. The wail of thunder, the fire-hammered flash of lightning release our voices from gravity-bound burdens. Rainbows and auroras shower our every utterance with technicolor parades. Mothering night births our grim thoughts into twinkling stars. We sing pure freedom. Our voices fly like birds into the bright bell of another rising sun.