Night of the failed Northern light

They said it would show up over the hill
of the trash dumpster; the night-alone, with
the elf's plan to visit her, saying smugly, don't panic,
when see me, in the dark room. Only to help.
Don't, she said. Police often patrol in this neighborhood. 

Twilight lingers over the hill,
then the vail of night falls;
she waits for the sun's display
of his famed artwork. But no sign of it. 
just the reflection of white light from
the dwellings below the slope. 
an hour, two, and three fly away.
no fault of the sun, just the place
where the sun's display couldn't reach. 

as if to console, a long serpent of fog
lay pulsating along the dark river. 
a sudden bright light bounces and slides 
down the hill as though a little ball thrown 
by a child, as you guessed, a car traveling 
down the road. 

Now, bedtime, hour of the elf.
Keep all the lights on in every room is
one of the defense tactics, demanding,
more coins on his game. 

In the morning, no big memory
of the night; no elf; just taste of sour fruit
and smell of fungi bread. 

©Byung A. Fallgren