There's solace within the black ink of night,
till the viscid void yawns and breaks at first light.
Trapping her prey by artful birdlime,
tagged and bound till a more suitable time.
By day her act seeks to solemnly pursue,
a persuasive pretence at dignified virtue.
Alas, the orb rolls away far to the west,
and darkness descends once more on the nest.
As feathers and frippery adorn her white hair,
which feckless aviate tonight will she snare.
