The wind whips the wires overhead.

Across the street, up on the high bank,

Rises the old mansion,

A many-eyed, tiny-mouthed face, grinning flatly.

Above the slate-hatted wedge of a head,

Beneath the deep blue of predawn,

Framed in a cork-colored window of illuminated cloud,

Beams the pale face of a bitten moon.

Tiny,

Reviled,

Tired,

Relieved—

Stands a man, before his den again.