Witching Hour

They call it the Witching Hour.

When the birds have long fallen silent.

And the air quakes with apprehension.

When the dark has come; swallowed the light.

The world becomes a savage thing.

But I turn my face to the sky and laugh.

Because I love it.

I love the frozen night.

When even the wind is quiet.

And the very air is waiting.

I love the memory of sunlight that lingers about me.

Even here remains the soul of the old north forest.

 

 

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