on a cool autumn night as the world changed, she took a moment to savor what her hands held. The lamps were too far away and above from her chosen perch to give color to the lawn as she pressed her palms deeper on the exhale into the slick, uneven tresses around her. Offshoots and roots braided into thick plaits along the hill’s dark cheek, holding its form, brushing its peak, framing the earthen face. If anything living has earned the name lock, it's surely a runner of grass.