First an alien dream
Then thinking, then planning
Nearly indescribable
Then the time
The energy and the mass
Those they did, of necessity
Describe exactly
A hundred hundred hundred
Million
Machines, weaving themselves
Out of themselves
Still
Translucent
Waiting
Then a signal
From the center of their star
To those machines
Enveloping their star
And the still machines spun up
And the translucence bent the spectrum
And the waiting was over
A hundred hundred hundred
Thousand
Years later, we look up
And see a star turn green
| Christopher Rowe was born in Kentucky and lives there still. Neither of these facts are likely to change. He has been a professional writer of speculative fiction since before the turn of the millennium, and his stories and books have been finalists for every major award in the field, including the Hugo, the Nebula, the World Fantasy, and the Theodore Sturgeon awards. He is the author of one of the most well-regarded collections of recent years, Telling the Map (Small Beer Press), and of two critically acclaimed novellas, These Prisoning Hills and The Navigating Fox (Tordotcom Publishing). He likes goofy dogs, good food, and giant robots. He probably watches more professional bicycle races than you do, but who knows? |  |