Something in the Woods

The summer sun drawing low and gold,

Damselfly and bee have buzzed back to home;

Aspens rustling louder than footfalls on the mould

That sheets the fallowed orchard’s loam;

Standing on the verge of farms and forests

Limned by boulder and brightly blooming weeds

Whose rhythmic dance the dying breeze arrests,

Stills the squirrels, starts the blackbirds from the reeds.

What bid them silent fall? Not scent nor sight

Reveal, but to my prickling spine it’s clear

That a formless and a nameless fear

Is furtive lurking in the late-noon light.

. . .

Published by Michael Warenycia