It is windy, if I had a kite I might be torn up off the ground and be made to fly through the turbulent sky.
It is a restless day with horses eyes white as the side step the flashing shadows on the rickety bridge.
It is the spasmodic flicker of the candle sputtering, wondering if it will go out before righting itself and flaring again.
The shadow may dance with careless abandon, but the dancer is filled with something far darker.
The dreamer dreams of the cycles of the moon, and its quaking small nightmares of each months passage.
Can it be just that, that makes the legs twitch and the eyes flash awake as the blinds are drawn to and fro in the bluster
and the streetlight flashes like a beacon on the seaside rocky shore, there is danger in the misting fitful mind.
The dancer perches on the edge of the stage, hands upon her face, as she yearns with jumpy legs for the abandon of her art.
As she rises and her arms reach up like the tall branches of the sturdy oak, or stags horns,
she stands on her tip toes as she patters across the once glossy floor.
She arises but to see that even in the darkest hour of the night she can longer escape from the roving of the wisdom eye.
She opens and closes them again once her thirst is abated, and yet not quenched.
Ungodly hour. Ungodly dreams, ungodlyshadows, ungodly wind that frightens the beasts that dwell within.
She can but pray for the hand of man to rest upon her weary back,
not to aid in strength or in purpose, but simply to say,
I am here, if you need me.
The candle flickers, the wisdom eye closes for a moment in a restive state, while the lighthouse continues to spin
and the sun rises somewhat against its own will on this very Zephyrus day.
“But do my prayers accomplish aught . . . and do the Zephyri (zephyrs) bear away my idly falling words?” from the Ovid