Serenity dreamt.

A day of rest, of quiet, of stopping, curling, staying still, pausing. Pause. Pause. What started out a comma in the long sentence of this month has, by this late time, become a semi-colon. Far to go before the full stop. For now: the next breath's drawing, gathering in soft dusk of this small silence, this short sojourn of tongue behind teeth. Gentle animals fold in the warm fields beyond my ears, nuzzling nose to soft-felted nose, closing their improbable eyes in unthinkably sweet rest. Even the migrations have quieted for the night, all but that one I can still hear resolving itself out of the blankness of the night, slipping in through my half-sleep at the distance of three years.