Death walks the row, black dress, white eyes, scythe held low. Moon above the stones, fog at her hem. She does not hurry. She knows them. Count the crosses. Count the names. Count the beds that look the same. The path is short. The night is wide. She keeps the gate. She steps inside. Hush, now. Hats off. No need to cry. She only comes when it is time. No lamp, no knock, no hand to keep. Death. Then sleep.