Dry

The breeze is relatively warm tonight, dry. And the leaves, also dry, skitter along behind me. I turn, thinking surely something is there. Darkness covers their trail, but I hear the scratch, the raspy skid, in any case.

Around the corner, I come upon dry grasses that look like miniature bamboo. They wave at me, eye-level. And as they move, a sound like a lady's crinoline sifts into the night. A lady's crinoline, or a maraca filled with tiny beans by some child's hand.

There are branches everywhere, dry. Curved against the deep blue night. Their true shape visible, lovely. And beyond them the stars peek through, tiny lights in a mistless sky.

My heart fills with sudden praise. You are here. In this dry place.