Dancers of the Wild Hunt
One summer's night, I chance on a display:
a shepherd snaking people through a town.
Clad in white shifts shoulder-to-ground, all sway
to the piping ethereal. I drown
in wanting to weave with this starlit wave.
The first few wear antlers. They speak no word
in my hearing, and he holding the stave
at back shows but scant sign of having heard
my inquiring, "Good man, why do they dance
here through the mists, in midnight's swirling breeze?
Are they celebrating comets, perchance?"
He shakes his head, gives my hand a small squeeze.
"Know, child, I am a man who speaks no boasts.
What is't you see?" He bends and whispers, "Ghosts."
First published at Rat's Ass Review, Autumn 2016
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