The night hums with dog-bark darkness. Something sings serenades to the trees, unknown melodies layered in the softnesses of silence.
Through long hours the moon shadowed out the rage of the sinking sun. It sits in the sky like a burning cup, filled with starlight and quiet distances, triumphant and fierce in its borrowed fires. It’s slow sail is my still point, my reference when I wake from another world and wonder where I am, which bed I have turned in.
Somehow I have lost track of walls, directions, countries, continents in a journeys I can’t quite remember.
The night is broken by noisy footsteps that are above, below or inside. They pound urgency into my dreams, set my thoughts running, flickering from fear to the twist of dancers.
The angled moon points the eye up into the fullness of the empty black, the unanswered question, the voyage not yet made.
There is something wild beneath all this stillness. Something is beyond words.