The night stood outside our window,
peering in at us like a voyeur.
We had the confidence of those who imagine
their thin walls protect them from the unknown.
We sat by the fire, listening to our thoughts
as if they were leading somewhere.
The night has its own thoughts, filled
with indescribable images we might encounter
in a vague dream, one which we mostly soon forget.
It is better to not remember, we have enough regrets
by now to offer to the fire, enough emotional kindling.
I want to make friends with the night, so I walk out
into the dark — there is no moon yet, nor wind.
The forest is curious, it gathers around me as if
I am bringing some new stories to share.
I am quiet, because I would rather just listen
to whatever the night is trying to say.
The night has no tales of hope or regret,
it just observes us patiently as we appear,
make stuff up for a while, and then disappear.
We would like to think there is more to it.
The night knows, there isn’t.