K.L. Dillon
My favorite time
of night
is when the
trees turn black.
And, the sky
transforms,
from a crisp blue
to sudden fire.
On our little
walk, I look
down beside
me.
There she is,
clutching my hand,
obliviously happy.
I ask her,
"What color
are the trees?"
She raises her
head, almost nearly
the size of mine.
Her eyes light up,
even more than
they were.
Impossible, I think.
They are black,
she says.
Then she points
to the crescent moon,
and the joy in her voice
is something I cannot
describe.