Shadewood Mama said, it’s uphill for oddities

Sundown in the Shadewood, the trees shaking and the pale moon swelling.
Jocasta sat on an upended log, her face a shroud of shadows, her back catching the shine. She picked up the bird she had plucked from its nest with her teeth.
Bit by bit the feathers came free. They lined the dirt and dipped in to the silt-laden puddles leftover by the rain. Beyond her, something moved. She froze and watched as the shadows parted ahead.
You look lost. She said. Speaking would draw his attention to the patch of shadow where she roosted but she did not mind. He looked like a silver beacon, emanating stolen light in mimicry of the moon.