They’re getting longer. The image from the twitter duel (see Harriet’s half) is proving persistent.
Painting by Winslow Homer
On the hill he waits, framed in silver against the night, hears her wringing hands, the yearning drumming in her blood. She watches her would-be lover, tall, night-dark, stars seething beneath his skin, feels the heat of the moon, listens to the wild night song. Behind her, the fire in the hearth fills the room with its red glare, but its heat is pale and cool compared with the flush of her cheeks. Stars tremble on the sky’s brow, an owl passes on silent wings, her heart flutters. Swans’ wings, black and white enfold him, enfold her, bearing them home.