All along the crystal cove the woven masks pace and pause from doorstep to doorstep. Shadows dance on the crest of the moon, as clouds, like dark bats, shift through the skies.
The children in garments of glib disarray;
the parents wear masks that won’t fade away.
Olive and amber, sea and sky;
salt and sand go winding by.
One can sense the cries of hovering birds,
the laughter of children,
and frost-bitten air.

Craig Froman, An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness