We had been waiting
for the moon-moth
to leave, the lizard near him
to scale its way to his hands.
He had been dead for a day.

Our ears were pricked
to the rustle in the grass
of his steps. His deep,
earthy voice.

We kept our lanterns lit, the guards
set up. We sent our children
to play in the trees.

But there was nothing for weeks.
Only the gecko and the slug.
The wheat heavy for reaping.
The ant trails on the walls
that were shaped like vines.

One by one, we eventually took leave,
called the children back.
We divided the wine
that we had saved for him.

There was only the growing termite hill.
The sigh of worms in the loam.
The centipedes on the road.