She tries.

She does.

The night pours forward like a wand reclaiming its magic, and words fall as infinitesimal dew droplets from the sky; impossible to catch them all, though I must try.  The kettle’ s undergarments are rusted but character driven.  The goals for which I’ve striven are poured out over the slate like the water from the kettle being unclaimed as vapor.  Some dogs whine at the door for attention without thinking to nudge it with their nose to see if it’s really closed.  Others curl into a tight ball, back to society, sleeping, as though they already know.

She tries.

She does.