She sits on dark
grass,
like a migrating
bird with a broken wing,
calling his name.
The moon,
like a ball of bright
wool,
lazes softly in a tree’s
fork,
its feet hanging over into
space.
She has chosen night for her
task because she is empty;
there are no angels here.
A light rain
beats its gentle
rhythm on the
leaves,
a benighted
squirrel
jerks its hairy
head, suspicious
of the
silence; and

she

slips

slowly

away.