Night
by
Nathanael Smith

Fitfully the eternal moon tries to overcome the low clouds blocking out the sweet blue light. The trees dance in time to the music of the breeze as it filters it's way to the grass and echoes among the tombstones. Sighing sweet nothings into my ear, the speck in an infinite universe. Slowly the clouds pull back to reveal a long figure writing madly all the thoughts and hopes and dreams and visions as they pass through his mind too fast for thought. Even as he watches, the night takes on it's sinister face again. The clouds hide the moon as though ashamed, the wind picks up , and the trees groan in labor pains. They are giving birth to archaic incarnate, to the very epitome of old and ancient and dead. This is the night when anything is possible, when the very self of it all screams in mortal fear. The dogs are out tonight to chase down the moon and, as a stuttering calf, to bring it to it's knees to beg for mercy or pardon, or death, and not get it, but forever drug across the night sky, ever dying, but never dead. Perhaps there will come a day, perhaps the hour will come for it's revenge. Perhaps. But not tonight...