(an offering to our Writer’s Group – a short fiction and poem)

Light silvery rain drifted down, glittering in the bright light of the harvest moon.
The black bird swooped in for the kill.  Grabbing in its talons the small mouse who tried to scuttle off into the field, it beat its wings strongly to lift against the added weight of its coming feast.

The mouse struggled and squeaked to no avail – dinner it was .. no more to fossick in the fields for grain.

As the black bird rose higher the rain misting off its gleaming feathers, the ground receded into the dark of the winter’s evening and a shadow slipped behind the trees on the edge of the corn field.

A shadow.. barely seen in the darkening night – noiseless – almost not there.

The shadow drifted into the forest – deeper and deeper – melting into the tree trunks.  But wait.. it is joined by another – and then .. more.. a gathering of shades of grey.

Grey ghosts – the spirits of the night – joining together – beginning the dance of the wraiths.

We see them not – for they are of the night
not of our world
beyond our sight
but come they do into our land
to dance and join their ghostly hands

We see them not
they are not ours to view
those spirits of the night
come to return in the mist of the dew

What is their purpose
what is their need
this time to gather under the trees
Seeking the company of other grey mists
where are they from
to where do they go

No one knows
no one asks
no one questions
no one sees
but dance they do dance
under the trees.

and the black bird flies home bearing his prize
calling the whiles to the ghosts with no eyes.