Night like a fling of crows / disperses and is gone. –Christian Wiman

I saw a red wave in the field and it hurt like it was my own blood.

In Hymnen an Die Nacht (Hymns to the Night), Novalis writes: Night became the mighty womb of revelations—the gods drew back into it—and fell asleep, only to go out in new and more splendid forms over the changed world (Higgins translation).

To start again. To sleep.

Darkness is made of colors. There are black shadows, fluttering lights of white, purple, grey, floating translucent balloons.

There are white flowers opening for bats.

Chrysalis. Transformation. Metamorphosis. Change. Becoming. Evolution. Mutation. Transanimation. Metempsychosis.

Another obsession like a vision of holes in the ceiling of a barn that has already collapsed. If I were a god, I would name them hayloft, tent, treehouse, shed.