The sun has set and turned her back, weeping

for a cave where she could be safe once more.

All the hair on our necks rose stiff, like pig bristles.

Our heads capped, ringed with cold – some winds should never mix,

some winds will never mix. The fishermen said their mouths

tasted blood; the women on land said their mouths tasted of fish,

fish too old to eat, fish no one would dare eat.

The very air shimmers because it knows it’s not supposed to, now.

Mountain spring witches will comb their long black hair

in this wind, and smile in recognition of the time.

Graves struggle to hold their people back, so eager they are

to touch the living.  The forest is empty but

we hear the sounds of chopping. The children

thought lost in the forest, return changed

and we do not trust them.