Curled up on the wooden deck, consciousness tucked away in the folds of sleep. Littered with shriveled leaves, little fallen angels lay looking up at the trees hanging over the veranda, their swaying lullaby treading like feline paws, soundless in the frost-bitten night. Pale creepers hug slender vines, and a wave of honey suckle flows down a sighing river, soft and light like a goose down pillow. She shivers in her sleep, but it is not the cold that stirs one so deep, but an internal whisper of a foregone enemy. Her closed eyes hold depths of ocean blues, where chains of kelp do trap their victims tight, and wind does weep, for those who wronged were right.