West with the Night

by Beryl Markham

Death, or at least the shadow that precedes him, seemed to have stalked far and wide that morning.

There are all kinds of silences and each of them means a different thing.

There is silence after a rainstorm, and before a rainstorm, and these are not the same.

The days that marked the war went on like the ticking of a clock that had no face and showed no time.

The questions are the same, but the symbols are different.