The sun went down and darkness swam into its place. I pulled my knees up to my chest and huddled in the joint of the trunk and the branch as the night sleep came over me. The stone crept up from my toes. Covered my knees and thighs, stomach and shoulders and my wings. My spurs were back in already, so it flowed over my ankles and up my legs and over my arms without jutting out. My face was up staring at the oranges and reds and pinks and blues in the sky when the stone covered my throat.

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I hate night, and I hate to sleep. Every night lasts forever. It goes on and on and on while the black water flows between the stars.

I hate those stars, too. They’re small and mean and they never stop glaring. I never know when they’ll go away. If they’ll go away. I wish they’d get sucked down into that black water they’re floating in, but they never do.

If the stars or monsters or the gods come after me while I’m in the night sleep, there won’t be anything I can do. My body can’t move until morning. But I watch anyway. Better to see death coming.