Within the corner of a darkened room, a woman sits on a chair and hums a repetitive tune.
Her eyes are closed and she rocks back and forth, back and forth, back and forth-seeming to sway in some invisible wind like the rushes on a lakeshore.
Her hands are moving between threads as she weaves and plaits them, every now and then stopping to tie a knot; the silence more permeable for the lack of song.
She sits, thus, for hours until the room lightens with the glow of the rising Moon, the shafts of which pierce the window to land at her feet.
The monotonous humming stops, the rocking stops, the dancing fingers stop-her eyes are open.
