Lydia knelt in the mud to retrieve Megan's soccer ball.
"Here, girl," she tossed the brown felt bag toward her potting shed where Megan snoozed on a porch rail in the late moon sun.
Galaxies sprinkled their snow dust over the crinkled lawn as her soft bowl of catnip bounded along in a hush of crushed handwovens.
Megan opened golden eyes hard to fix a stare at flakes flowing toward the floor and her dampening hair longing of silver and pure white.
Night threw ogling shades shaping dreams in drifts clinging to the fencerow of drying weeds dying in each refreeze.
Destiny's heavy door screeched against faded planks sinking and bristling each to odd toward groundbase stone in the hillside ledge edging Friar's Creek Cove.
"Liddy, come in now out of the cold! Stew's on and dumplings are forthcoming," he tempted his sister.
"Love, you'll get p-new," he scolded, bundling afghan wools over her blue satin shimmy.
"The moon is so warm tonight." Lydia hummed heading toward a braid rug slung onto the daybed by the stove.
"Fresh fishies, Megan!" he reported through the kitchen screen.
She wound 'round his ankles and toes in a sensuous seethe of greeting and gratitude.
"Feline shazam," Destiny pronounced with a flourish and overfilled scaley-finned plate.
"Sissa, shimmy on over here. Daddy needs some heat on his pores."
Lydia unknotted from the rug with a grimace as bare soles slid on exposed wood into the glass-domed hallway and curved toward the pantry to answer the wild's call.
Destiny posed still in the thrall of fringes flaying air and thigh.
Liddy trilled their secret tune.
He beat the counter with nails and palm.
The rhythm and rhyme became Destiny.
"Nightshine," he nibbled into her ear.
"Starchime." She traced the rib of his spine.
And they fell as one each to each against the gravitational well bubbling to boil in a time all their own.