INUKSHUK You were built from the stones, they say, positioned alone against the sky here so they might take you for something human checking the migrations. That's how you manage this, standing upright despite the blue wind that snow is this close to Polaris. Still, the wind worries you some. It's your niches that ought to be empty. Nothing but lichen grows there usually. Now they're home to dreams. Most come from the south, a few from further north out of their mouths comes from no direction you know. They keep singing about the Great Blue Whale the world is; how it swims through space having nightmares about hunters who only hunt their brothers the other's snow-white face. How beautiful frozen flesh is! Like ivory, like carved bone, like the lights of Polaris in hand. So it goes on and one, the hunting refrain. Dead silence would be better, the Pole Star overhead. The wind agrees, at least wants to stop up each niche. How long can you stand it that no longer hold you up now that they hold you down? Soon the migrations recommence. How steady are you? Dreams, so they say, also sing on the wing.