By Daniel Moro
The seawind swept stars and things up past your window. Someone watched you down by the tall grass as you walked up from the docks, then back again.
Something hums past the crypts and sunken meadows, further past the stone fountain. Can you hear it?
I find myself in love at half-night between cloud and mountain, but only in dreams.
A strange man lowers himself into the creek beside the lilybank. This petaled water he has made his home and he will sleep there.
The midday sun punished the valleys, high and low, shimmering and nearly ablaze.
Songs of solitude and praise echoed from a small brown home to which no path led and near no creature strode. Do not knock at the door. They are the tender ones, the ones inside.
Larks passed by the cottage at sunset, which one other woman and I noticed. She drew her hands off the collar of her shirt and started home.
The wind howled through the pines that night and even the owls slept.
A shadow passed by one of the windows downstairs, then paced back and forth once more. I would later find out that figures were spotted in the woods that night.
A cat between my legs, a mess of my heart at my feet. The dandelion sun shone once more.
“Every moment is a chance to start anew,” you thought, as you bled out in the bathtub.