The ones with the cold finger will always get you. Once, a couple of birds was perched on a branch of the old tree outside her windows. She tried to listen but all she could hear was the silence of the night. Yes, the glow on the pavement reached her ears, whispering to her like sea breeze clutching on to the sunset. Listening she was, every murmur. It was terrifying, she claimed. Covering her ears, she went and told her pillow. Buried deep in her velvet, she stargazed alone. Shedding dews like flowers blossoming but only duller. She'd decease in silence. Nowhere could be heard that murmured voice again. And the night had gone absolute still since now the weeping of a little angel is heard no more.