I sit on the moon's round rim and um a half forgotten harmoney, fiddling to the tune of the tides. But regardless of the moon's phase, the sea wind will whistle and wind my strings too tight.
I walked on water last night, but my footprints were blown away. Drenched and dry, I shivered, caught on the edge of something, of evening, of ocean.
When it is dark, almost dark, death feels much closer. The dark is full of unknowable cliffs, footsteps, and filled space. I can close my eyes, but I can’t sleep.
So I’ll play my fiddle and stare into the black water.