At night, the woods come alive.
They shape shift. They dance.
It’s a glorious ball with painted eyes
And noble gowns around a buzzing hive.
They get bigger too, the woods.
I think I hear them say, “you’re small.”
They don’t say nothing, and it’s not banal.
They seem to say, “this is not all.”
A breeze blows. Something scurries.
And though I don’t know what it is,
I am sure now. I am certain
There is more behind the curtain.
There is more than what I sense.
There’s something that I cannot grasp.
I pause to listen by a fence,
But hearing nothing I commence.