Dangles like a necklace, the setting sun
beaded ornament of glowing nights,
of smoke rising from the distant hills,
of darkness sunken into saffron eyes of owl
echo light as precious stones.
A silver wolf paces the black forest,
an old, reluctant woman asks for directions
in a strange city, instinctively turns east-
the gate of her house closed each evening
with sudden clasp of a rusted latch.
Small creatures wait for day in fear, men
lie down in feathered beds and weep,
........... work in progress