All That is Wet

At dusk, the wolves come out. Running with such a terrible speed that the diamonds of the ground only seem to reflect a murky passing of black and gray water pixies. It is raining this night. Midway between midnight clouds and dampened shrubbery the molecules echo back the wayward workings of the forest in its dimly lighted glory. A Heron's scream is born through the orifice of a small and dainty stag as the wicked sprites sink their carnal magic into the animals neck. There is something unmistakeable about the openness of the moon on twighlights such as this. The way Diana and Artemis appear to get along with each other and take turns keeping watch over the shadowy trees. The trees tell a story in itself. They are the ceremonial watchtowers the dogs leap around as the shade of those huggable towers mark the dirt on which everything in this forest stands. The rain has picked up. A paladdin wips through the sycamores like lighting. He cuts the dusk in two and splits the night among purple hourglass pellets.