Silver beams pierce the night like arrows in flight.
It is not dark –
there not an absence of light,
only a surfeit of perception.
A glow traveling through time,
Dusting the earth.
Lighting on the ordinary,
the every day,
Wet washing lines into a midnight diamond necklaces,
damp roofs into sheets of polished gold,
giving cresting waves strings of pearls
and gentle halos to those the beams rest upon.
In the light,
by the light,
focus falls on other things, the light itself all to quickly dismissed.
In the darkness it is the light that is seen,
making all things precious.