It’s the silver streak that unsettles, shaking the mind, the clouds, the ground swelling rapidly to meet the descent, the shimmering jab, the crackling flash. I’ll not go out tonight. Shut the door, close the windows, pull the blinds, turn off the lights. We’ll stay here. The moon is caught again, half-swallowed by the flash, the streak, the jab. Your bones quiver, don’t they, but the night is not weary and the ground is soft again, calm again. I’ll string the words across the room, metallic and pure, ringing every time we move, ringing when we doze against the chair, feet dangling in the cold winter air..
Andrea Moorhead
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