The night closes its eyes and dreams

of a place where silver fish swim in an inky black pool
sunk in the cool marble
of an in-between time
hung with mists
that sway like sheer drapes drifting, drifting,
with the music of invisible birds
twining, twining, harmonizing
with the howling of one lone wolf
and the night is barefoot, sleepwalking
into another day. — Annette Marie Smith