those born under the fox
in the dawn gap
between better known constellations
speak a doubled language,
with each word a truth and
with each phrase a lie
in the evening gap, unclaimed,
by others, the chameleon constellation
stakes its changing hold
on those who achieve a rare paradox—of blending in
when they’d rather not
of letting emotions turn visible
when they’d rather hide
the raven sign is chosen, not
tied by birth, a mantle claimed
by those who seem to know
everything the other stars have forgotten
those born into the sign of the hare
come from any season;
they are the ones unwanted by the greater signs,
those chased by the hunters’ dogs,
those who live, ignored by the stars;
among the students of the signs,
the wise know that the hares are uncountable,
are, in some ways, everyone