The air was like the forest’s humus: the moon played reluctant sun. Pollinated air vagabond-camped on the streets. Before the undead walked, the night was claimed. The canopied horizon smoked pink and orange piping veils, rolled up, blown out, in rings, across the trees’ heads. The moon followed her, whether predatory or protection. There was never a time, not in a waking world or a dreamy sleep that she did not wonder if he remembered her. A box of letters merged betraying words with ink and paper, growing denser. It composted. From whence it came, so it would go.