Enya descends her mountain
on the equinox. She carries

a quiver, a bow, a handful
of arrows. She is hunting

shadows, tonight so scarce
and therefore so valuable,

her calculations precise
when it comes to supply

and demand. Her footsteps
are silent, her bowstring

pulled taut, her body
like smoke or water,

rarely in the shape of a woman. She is not
impatient: she knows waiting

is everything. She knows
the thickets, the foxholes,

the densest pockets of undergrowth
where shadows like

to hide. She knows the way time works
against concealment. Soon the sun

will rise and she will return
to her palace with hands

painted black. She will carry
enough dusk on her shoulders

to last her through the coming
months. But for now

she listens, hears something move
beneath a mound of dead

leaves, tenses her bicep
and tilts her head back.