Tonight, as I look up, the starshide themselves in shame. There is no moon.The sky is black, like my desk,
nothing like a raven. The streetlightslook on the scene disinterested.They have their own small gossips of the dark.
I came here to find the Lion, oldfriend, but he will not show his flanks, hispaws, his shoulders, his mane. I
can hear him laughing from his hiding-placebehind the moon, nonexistent, underthe cold dead earth. The mountain is in front
of me now, a hole of stars daring meto pierce it with my sight. The lion’s stilllaughing; the streetlamps talk about
me amongst themselves, and go out. Therenever was any lion, they tell me.You only hear the wind on the mountain.