How his vigilance became the night.
Comes to him like a sparrow, misdirected, beating at the window and the light he shelters within: bird or cry of Absalom near the city gate, his heart flown from the nearest town. Light snow flurries throughout the state and again tonight the grace of home, his hands unlovely, and the kitchen cold as the sparrow's breast for surely tonight it will freeze: wings brittle, angry body stiff, eyes wide and hard on the sun as Absalom saw light sift through the olive tree which tangled and caught his hair. His father's men like hounds, cold tomorrow travellers' warnings for the West and South. Still at the window, obsessed, it is like any other. For his Absalom, wept.