Smoke winds through the green leaves, uncoiling and climbing into the night. Gray and translucent it seems to shine from the dim light, the shine of the unlit and leaving. That radiance of that dismissive smile, the twinkle in and infants eye, the pure machine gleam of dragonflies in the dusk-- light loves some just so, just right. The waxy leaves, the unwound smoke, the mirror once it is empty. Here where all the shadows settle, one can't help but envy all that ambling shine. Here where the night resides, the eye loves that which it can see.