Shy Deer Steppes Dark

slightly forward dating 7/24

She bathes. It’s a warm midnight just off the mesa and she’s ridding her pelt of sickness from the week, what she would not do in the shared wellspring. Cleansed eyes are pale and all that is seen in the dark, lightly golden like a wolf’s, hooked like a coyote’s. A sigh dissolves to night, she allows the water to consume her in full, resurfacing to drift along her back.

Above the sky festoons with stars. The half-moon is muted, sailing through nothingness. It’s distant and indifferent, hearing prayers, giving a low light, falling slowly.

And anyone who looks into the sky tonight will see the same moon. In that is an odd sort of comfort.