Hope lays quietly inside like the first still of water below the surface of ripples.
It is the eager bat hunting before his usual hour, but remembering the early bird has already been here.
It is the moon trapped between two outside walls that can’t see light, or refract it, or diminish it.
It is a cloud jumping from the ledge of a hospital window, fractured from imagination and willing to break further still to feel free.
It is a lost butterfly wing in a crowded street.