The Witching Hour

They flock and flutter from flower to flower
across the glen.
If you catch them
as twilight slips in across the valley,
just before
the trees set upon you,
a shimmering change before your eyes,
a butterfly no longer,
but a pixie,
with wings as feathery and shiny
as spider webs full of fresh morning dew.
They will gather all around;
a myriad of colors dancing.

White bark phosphoresces
and
black pock marks glisten.
The wind plays the harp clouds
as the
birch trees raise their roots
and begin a
solicitous tango across the mountain side;
their leaves laughing
beneath an orange moon.
.
Water in the brook slowly shapes
itself into nymph form.
Diaphanous bodies
with
such
depth
one can drown
in them.
Spinning, whirling, leaping,
they dance
a wild tarantella
leaving a pellucid trail
of crystalline droplets in their wake.