The Wild Hunt of the Skies
In the woods the quiet day settles
Dry leaves restless
Wind-whispered twigs and branches
Twilight creatures watching, waiting.
Over the mountains the storm threatens
Each layer a rise of elemental being
Till high, high in the darkening sky
In the clear cold thinning air
The faintest sound of trumpets
Shrill, shrill, a galloping of sound
Begins to finger-circle the porcelain dome
To raise the note that carries the tune.
The far-off beating of the drums
Begins, a giant heart's quickening pulse
But drums or hooves? You cannot tell -
A tempest of shadows gathering
A lance of darkness over the forest
Drawing a curtain over the canopy
Shuttering the brightening moon.
And then we see them,
The horsemen howling and shouting to the night
Their mounts wild-eyed, foaming
The hounds baying
The trumpets, the drums,
The beating of paws and hooves on empty air,
The ecstasy, the dark purpose
The speed reckless, the abandon, the savagery -
It is the wild hunt of the skies
The ancient ride of feral souls
It batters the horizon, and is gone.
And the silence of catharsis fills the woods.
