She has hair made from the night sky,

Not a blinded city sky,

A country night sky,

The real night sky,

It moves like the ocean,

Maybe it is the water’s reflection of the night sky,

A grand mirror of constellations and deities,

She stares upwards, her eyes somewhere afar,

Not gazing at me,

Shimmering like the moon,

But perfect,

An image of a cool breeze on a winter’s night.

Where is she looking?