Old fancies.

She moves.
A stretched calf,
a pointed, steady set of toes
exhale from her body, graze the ground.

Inhale.

She spins,
falters on the tale
that liquidizes
in her veins.

The bones are tight.

Air swirls and swells and hides
behind her ears
as she tumbles into structured
movements, across the black, across the smoke.

The light fades. Her light fades.

The crow cries from beyond the window
and the croak of an old toad mourning lingers on the porch
like her last puff of cold, stranded breath
as I put Trust to bed.