The poet has taken up a vigil on the evening once it gets dark enough. With a smoke, and sometimes a tea with a naughty nip in it, there she is on the swing, and there she watches the shadows lean into the wood like tired old men, watches the nocturnal dim give up the forgotten things. She has made friends with these hours, curled up in a silken dress of some watery shade, leather jacket pulled tight, collar raised to fend off the chilly fingers of wind at her throat, observing. Sometimes it was an animal, say a sparrow of a swallow that decided to tickle its claws across the railing in a bird-game that caught her eye, or sometimes it was passing strangers, but mostly it was an empty street doused in the kerosine colours of a lonely moon above that spoke. Her moon, and the moon and Anka's moon, was what it was, and everynight it wore a new face, and sometimes was exuberant white and sometimes a shy, mustard yellow.

Here will be the quiet, small stories of Rhy'Din, as witnessed by the poet.