It's late-night on our street and all the parents have gone upstairs to bed. Only children lie awake in their warm cozy comforters and dream of yesterday and tomorrow. The cats drool on carpets. Cars sit snugly in their spots, waiting.

In this majestic night-time forest, there is a backlit crowd of trees and they hang down their necks like dinosaurs. Their many tangled arms reach into night's light, relentless, searching.  

 

In a dark room, you stand up knowing, unafraid, your questions like a bright flickering light. This candlelight shines on half your face and reveals the rest of a secret. Its final words trail off before you reach for them—grasping, grabbing at the tail of pure lightning.

 

There's these plastic holders she keeps under all her guest's drinks to keep tabs on them.
No one ever sees her glide across the room and swing her glass around until hers falls out from underneath, unnoticed.

 

This feeling is an answer, like windows opening and closing, warm wind hitting her shoulders.

Without saying a word, she pushes her sweater back up her shoulder now when he turns away.

 

Midnight moonlight draws a vine down the centre of her face. She moves slow, boots strapped snugly and rubber crunching roots below her.

She moves, but no one knows she's here. No one knows that each breath breathes in full forest, holds it there before unleashing.

 

There's this bird she likes to watch each night:

He rests his bony claws on the branch of an old oak tree. He will grab the thick branch solidly with one claw as he reaches the other to his face, perfectly balanced. This is how he washes his face, slowly and carefully.
This is how he moves: dinosaur-like, ancient, raw.

 

When no one is looking, after a day's dark escape, she comes out to her backyard forest, headlamp strapped on. She smoothes down each leaf's upturned worry, each flower's sagging grace.

The thorns don't bother her then—she's fed by some other life-blood, some other force. It's dark and pure as wet, red dirt.

 

A tree, huge and dinosaur-skinned, reaches its branches up to the pink city sky.

Its leaves are like fingerprints against a pure mist sky, pale purple and spotted with clouds. Its branches hang down like dinosaurs necks over this suburban street packed with sleeping cars.
 
A streetlight, some far-off buildings, light up the mossy bark as it gently curls off the edge.

 

You're out in the garden with the headlamp on, picking zucchinis in the dark. Hanging shirts and rose buds bloom beside you.

 

Stretch your arms out overhead, there are canopies of trees there. Between the foot of your car and the moon's first light, their branches fall, rounded, soft.

 

There's a pink rose bud that's just sprouted, delicate and silent. It's all the pinkness of this moment. It's a crumpled ball of bud, then bloom.