V. 2, #196: October 11, 2013

He hiked the old trail, back over the pass
between the hills that led to Finder's place.
The wisps of cloud drew round the moon like lace.
The lake was like a purple sheet of glass.

He tarried by the water, kicking stones,
entranced by cricket and cicadia song.
He might have stayed an hour, or all night long.
The birch trees held bare branches up, like bones.

And all that he remembers of the thing
that rose out of the water there and spoke
to him, is how the bright, pale moonlight shone
like fire upon the simple silver ring
she wore, and how she moaned and went to smoke
before his eyes. He woke cold, and alone.