In the light they stay silent and still, it is in the dark that they know how to move about, how to crawl and slink. Such creatures they are, their talents are the manifestations of purpose, maybe, or of adaptation, who knows, but isn’t the world the same, the weather continues hot and everything points to an early harvest. Thieving is their nature, and however much they are called to come to bed, come to sleep, come to sleep, sweet one, in the night they search for gold and treasures and only once found and stored safely can they, daily, rest.

She corners one of them, she sings bad love songs in his ear and he wishes to resist his nature, just to be and be with her. But they call him, and he gets out of bed, leaves her behind to forage and pilfer with his kind. In his thoughts that night, as he lays hands on goods that he does not possess, is only her hair, and only his idea to tame a bird to light where she lives and watch her while he cannot.

When he returns, his stash well hidden, the bed is empty. The bird is gone too, and all that is left for him is to feel the daywarmth rise about him and wonder against his nature, against his talent that so prevents his joy.