Thrasher's Call

The silver moon outstretches gentle rays that softly light – but do not burn – my frame. I go unseen, unmarked by searching blame; the warmth of night is kinder than the day’s. Such safety lies beyond the sunset blaze, when dusk falls and distracts the anger-flames, and stars come out, and call my wounded name, and sing of bruising’s end, and Healer’s praise: “The Sun in all her wrath may feel eternal, but every raging noonday meets its end; the end of pain – indeed, of days – draws near!” I hear their silent silver song nocturnal, a distant missive from my nearest Friend, whose love, in darkness, casts out all my fear.

To be paired with 1 John 4:18