I think she’s fringy, very much to the edge of it; stretches out her arm and is hit from the light of another galaxy, well beyond.
I believe she walks in shadow, but recharges by sunning unseen, enlightened by the luminary’s hidden persona, the half of it that’s over its own pride.
Others are perplexed by her, they fill in the gaps with vulgar suppositions: feminine mental jumble and illogic. She lets them, the secret is too far yet, it exists on a parallel timeline that whispers, and she strides right beside it as a faithful dog does with its master.
They keep expecting her to appear, to finally touch ground for good, and for a while she seems to, but even then, it’s a mirage. She’s been covering ground, watching and listening, on a trip that left her body as representative, and by her return, she’s changed.
I think she’s been talking to the owl, the crow, and the moths. I suspect she’s been wandering on fringes and along fault-lines, walking all night, a tourist of the quiet, a daughter of the night chart.
She’s been working while in rest, consolidating karma, learning the language of traders, dark vs. light, Sun vs. Moon.
Will she ever tell of all she’s seen and heard on the peripheries? I can see a line drawn on her, it parts her in the middle, the fault-line, she’s the fringe itself, here to bridge the crossover, last light from one galaxy to the darkness of a new one.
And so she walks, while I follow.
