The baby crying filled the moonlit house.
A responding crack of the wood below offered no solace.
The leaves of the aspens danced in solidarity, as a crowd,
shards of silver fish.
hair flung out draping the white couch;
a curtain closing the play.
As quickly as heavy eyelids succumbed to the weight of sleep,
they opened to wildflowers in a mountain meadow not yet warm from the sun's rise.
And we say before an endless green of sleeping mountains.
You talked to outrun the creeping silence of contentment.
I was already caught.