dark and brooding
waiting to deflect the blow.
When it comes.
Solid and cold, hulking,
they wait.
On a warm night
she sometimes pads out to them,
leans against a massive front,
and absorbs the coolness they store,
gazing at the pinpoints of light in the vast sky.
The sentinels pay her no heed,
tolerate her slight form in their midst,
tolerate her touch,
intent on nothing,
intent on everything,
waiting to deflect the blow.