At midnight,
the graveyard belongs to the moon.
The gate has stopped complaining
on its rusted hinges.
The last car has disappeared,
the last footsteps have faded,
and the living have gone home.
Now the stones stand
in their patient rows,
names silvered by moonlight,
dates softened by weather,
whole lives reduced
to a few lines
and a dash between them.
Grass moves between the graves.
Not wind.
Something quieter.
An owl calls from the oldest tree
and receives no answer.
Beyond the cemetery wall,
a dog begins to bark,
then suddenly stops.
The darkness seems deeper
around one particular grave.
There is no reason for it.
There is only the feeling
that someone is standing there,
waiting,
not to frighten you,
but to remember
what the world has forgotten.
The moon crosses the sky.
Shadows change places.
A fallen leaf skitters across a stone
and comes to rest beneath a name.
For a moment,
you think you hear whispering.
You lean closer.
Nothing.
Only the grass.
Only the branches.
Only the ancient silence
keeping company
with the dead.
And when you finally turn
toward the gate,
you discover
that one of the cemetery doors
has already opened.
You don\'t remember opening it.