The Mouse in the Night

 

Always at a witching hour, 

  Sleeping then soon after the Sun

     heads it's mass. 

Nocturnal now, 

  Laying abridge on a floating driftwood; 

  Starring up at the starlit dive above, 

     Hand in the current. 

Time gone numb here. 

  It's own adaptation. 

    Placated. 

    Absorbed. 

    Maleable. 

I stir then, 

  A mouse in the night. 

Busy & unfurling. 

  Time flipped.