The cold shoulder

In the dream I was a huntress mating with Orion-- muscled and fleshed-- his tunic torn in passion it was below zero that Vermont night and I giggled, finished, laying naked in the snow and feeling no cold as he slumped, worn, I cradled him but he dissipated, belt first (he never took it off) Betelgeuse was the last to go. I clung to that cold shoulder and he winked at me-- winked with all eight stars— and faded into night