In the evening, we come looking for them. Words. Our city, its dazzling glow, miles behind us now. Hope, the ancient parasite, sits on our shoulders in a carrion dream. But how else can we go about it, our work? 

A dark blue land beckons us. Here, we learn not how a night sky shrouds a field, but how a moon can coax it out. All around us, things alive. Leaves, stalks, wild berries, animals of night. All come from the shadows to be counted, to meet the wide flat hand of the sky.

If you are patient, moonlight will find them for you. Words. They glimmer in the dirt like treasure buried in haste. Easily touched, had. Others hide deeper, their lights extinguished.

Sadly, some are lost for good. Pressed down deep into earth. Waiting for another time. A different moon. Forgotten, abandoned like an old Celtic dream.