In the forest house are the gathered, the friends, the mystics; speeches, falling leaves, acclaim and dread, waiting whispers, tearful meetings and farewells. Some great intersection, a conclave at a crossroads in a pillared cathedral of towering trees.
Smoke rising from far-off conflagrations makes the hearth-fire around which we sit seem profane under darkening bower, the light-giving lanterns a sorrowful glow in the gloam of the day.
And I am there, but I am also elsewhere, looking always towards him, catching his glance, awaiting the moment of silence and what comes after.
In all the clamor I await night’s final falling, when my words are no longer for others but only for him–that moment, before settling slumber, when tongue and lip have no other demand, but may finally trace the contour of muscle below the fur of his chest.