Anonymous
In the dwindling twilight, a face appears as the old one recedes; a timeless expression quite familiar peeks from among the striped crimson clouds. As this face rises so do the surrounding flora and fauna: Not the ones who show themselves in plain sight, but the ones who stay hidden until the night. Their eyes shimmer in the pale rays and fresh fallen rain glimmer in same. To the crescent we sing and to the crescent we dance, following the footsteps of those long before us. Our neighboring creatures, delicate and wary, begin their lives as well, bowing to the lost, to the forgotten, to the anonymous.