I look down the hill at the valley below,
with darkness and fog it looks like snow.
The mist hovers above the ground in the pale moonlight.
I am the only one who sees this in the middle of the night.
Why have I been chosen to witness this sight?
Aren't there others more worthy of this right?
I see the mist floating like spirits on a quest;
to find where they belong, or at least where they like best.
Their shapes changing and dissipating at will.
I see their rituals well from my window on the hill.
I wonder if the specters know that I've witnessed their dance?
although fearing their wrath, I continue taking the chance.
They must know of me. I feel them beckoning to me now.
Still I watch with fascination, not daring to blink.
Visually absorbing everything; "wine for my eyes to drink".
Captivating serenity; I’m atpeace with all.
Pledging my eternal attention. A servant 'til I fall.
As they drift closer I know they are coming for me.




Poem copyrighted by Bo Bandy.

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