From a word list at the Sunday Whirl: Wordle 244
Miles To Go moved like a phantom when he chose, which was useful for a pickpocket, god knows. But sometimes, just for fun, Miles turned himself to something silent as smoke when there were no coins to be had, deep in the woods where there was nothing to steal. Miles smiled his crooked smile when he startled a herd of deer at the water’s edge. It was so restful, far from cities where everything was named—people, streets, shops, even the animals, named and named and—well, it was exhausting. In the woods, or by the edge of the lake, nothing had a name except Miles. He could stay there all night, casting pebbles into the water, singing the words to the moon’s favorite song, till first light when some hunger would lead him back to work, back to stealing from the named.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 