Darkness is its own wyrd, a net and web unto itself, a womb consenting to my residence, which protects the world from me (and me from it, I’ve heard it whispered) at cost and because it is night’s most natural intuition to cleave to bright nonsense.
Night in winter is a warm beast hungering so fiercely that its own tail would suffice even for a few jeweled specks. What sustenance in starkness but the wraiths of color and music, the tapping insistence of the silent? The first new smell will be of grass, hold on.
Night in summer offers two harsh dreams, beautiful buffeting sense for senses, for the sun addles me, challenges my smug esteem, makes itself the most lovely unwanted guest I’ve ever insulted or eaten.
I prefer when, in autumn and in spring, the sacred mirror of the sun hangs among the clouds so that we might revel in its mantle in our nakedness.