First, in the corner of the deserted arcade, a dull coppery glint; then the crooked shape, separating from evening shadows. The crone walks up to you; stops, cocks her head, as if waiting for instructions. She is impossibly small. For three long pauses you stand at arm's length. The city's hum seems softer. A flicker of a thought-- "Why am I still--" She places one tiny palm on your heart. The copper bangles on her arm clink. Her hand is warm, very warm. (You are aloft on a summery current, wings outstretched; your sunlit realm stretches to the far sea.) One wide, wide smile, revealing few teeth; deep lines show at the corners of her grey eyes. Then, abruptly, she is a cipher, a mask, shuffling away, a shadow among shadows. Some strand of your heart follows, curious. Your mind drifts; you are an egg, a pinprick among the many who wait to be born. How can *this* be so heavy and yet so light? --- *December 2012*