Mice Dream Night Returns

Morning pushes night underground; night rests. She rests too, in the fur of black cats and the iridescent plumes of crows. Before closing her eyes, she hides clues in the deepest shade. Night asks the morning birds for a good night serenade.
In the evening, as the sun sighs into her western bed, night returns, quiet and sly; pervasive and rejuvenated. She sprinkles star glow onto still puddles and ponds, where the sparkles dance. They dance too, in the soft eyes of frogs and the hard gaze of owls. A silence grows; the silence between breaths. Children dream.
Children do not dream of cozy beds and dark houses. Rather, they dream of the day and the days’ doings; they dream and feed the sun; calling her back.
Before morning, field mice trundle underground, their pockets filled with polished pebbles of night; tiny globes that hold the memory of endless stars. Curled tight in dry grass nests, mice dream the thoughts of midnight and first-star wish; of crescent sliver behind veiling clouds. They dream of night and her husband, the Great Nothing.