Thanks to the Death Star...

Thanks to the Death Star blowing up, there was a dark-orange mark floating where the Death Star once hung in the blue Endor sky. Flying into a prepared trap, the brave rebel forces who opposed police state had still managed to eliminate the Empire's number one piece of real estate.

On the surface of Endor that night, the furry natives of the forest moon played music and drank to their dead along with the rebels who wept and sang and embraced. The Skywalkers contemplated the apogee of their family's long, holy destiny.

They all collapsed asleep late with leather drums thumping sporadically throughout the treetops in the smoky dawn.

In the morning, the orange mark of the Death Star still stained the blue sky like the oil slick left by a sunk ship in our own place and time. In the morning, all morning, sore, singing rebels burned the air with their X-wing jets, bound for space and what they thought was glory.

In the morning, the first storm troopers back on planet Coruscant began kicking down the doors of rebel sympathizers, citing new executive orders issued in the wake of the destruction of their great space station. They tossed people who had no ability to parry lightsabers, fly ships, fire blasters, lift objects with their minds into soundproof prison cells
by the thousands to little public protest, the galactic media mute, the Hutt gangsters even celebrating, gorging on toads.

In the morning, proud Ewok Wicket of Endor, sitting alone at a camp fire, gazing up then stabbing a spear at smoldering ashes, said a prayer, puffed his pipe, and began composing the first of his great war poems, epic legends that eventually stirred trillions of souls and found long life in hut, school, and ceremonial hall.