I have many friends I speak to

Some dead, some half alive

They walk with me

And hear me as a bird with many

Sad or joyous songs after

Dangerous nights

One tags along I do not know

Although his eyes seem to have

Seen all my days and lays down

With me at night where snow

Presses a pillow against every window

I curl up with him and go to sleep

His breathing the last song I hear

— Judith Croxford