A tree is a child in a schoolyard, red wool stockings, light on her face, glancing up at the camera. The moon is

a pale pink smudge, eclipsed by a massive field of stars growing brighter all the time. A held breath becomes a

sigh, casts no shadow we can find. We wish for a quiet life. We wish for a sharper knife to single out this

perfect night. A tree is a bird with a head start, light upon the snowy sky, growing lighter all the time. A held

breath becomes a sigh, casts no shadow we can find. A sigh becomes a sign. A sign becomes a light.