Night wears out. Stars that were high go down.
The campfire dies. Shapes from the forest ghost by,
so quiet that sleepers on the ground never stir.
Thin under the lid of dawn tomorrow is coming.
Dim floating figures bow to the sleepers
then fade as the light grows. They loom in the dark,
those forest wanderers. They step only in shadows.
For a moment I am one of them, then come awake.
Some night I will breath out and become
part of the silent forest, floating as they do
towards the thin lids of dawn,
and like them, unknown.