She Opens the Curtains at Night
just to see how the dark must look to the dead. Through the window, she can see how echoes of the piney woods shiver against an indigo sky, each feathered tip tracing another’s shadow in the air. White pinpoints freckle the endless reach, moving away from the earth, each one transgressing the vast space with their disappearance. Inside her bedroom, the moon-laced floors pantomime a name she cannot speak. There is too much silence in this world, she thinks. Too many words gathering, stirring, waiting—
Her fingertips touch the cool glass that separates her from the night, and she wonders if the trees dream.