The sound of the wind makes this night colder still. Planted by the window, I watch the darkness dissolve in the rain, a stream of smeared black dripping from the branches. There’s a brown moth pressed against the windowpane, her wings folded serenely as if in prayer. With a gust of wind one of her wings lifts a little, just to settle down again the next moment.
Above the hills to the south a lightning strikes, breaking the midnight-sky into a jagged half.
Reluctantly, I leave the window, flip on the small shoji lamp in the hall and walk towards my bedroom:
keeping to the wall
it follows me
into my dreams