I would fly by often
At night, often rest
At the tree beside her stone block home
As the moonlight traced her house
Rendering a bokeh of the mountain side
It was past nine, that she would arrive
In the night, sipping her whiskey
Onto the porch and sit in the wooden recliner
Beside an empty one
Sing old numbers, in a gentle mellow voice
The windows of her home
Lit by a warm stove's light
It was flicker and splash
Of yellows and orange hues
On her wood laquer walls
Past eleven she would walk
Vanish through the string curtains
Some nights, on weekends
She would sleep beneath the stars
And all I would do is hope the mornings
Took the furthest time to arrive