In the instant that the bedside lamp goes out, the shadow slips into the hall, scurries down the stairs and then up a wall and through the front door to where the patio light stays on until morning. It flits for a while, following the moths as they crash into the bulb; it chases a cat as it passes under a street lamp.

Then the moon bursts full from behind a cloud, and the shadow leaps up to play. Maybe it was born in the day, but it likes the vagaries and inconstancies of night. Night is its real home.


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