Grinning silhouettes gather on the horizon
fascinating, horrid, moribund but lively.
In the silvery, shivering shadows at full moon
they gobble warm flesh of owl chicks they’ve stalked.
Sharp-chinned, with gnarled skin they grumble and garble and recite in low-toned chants the lores of the night.
Munching and crunching, their jaws mash the giblets.
Cream and lilac toadstools are sprinkled with fennel
then thickened with bitter cobs withered on cornstalks
Soon distended stomachs set tempers a-fraying.
Fisticuffs fly and the feast ends abruptly.
Raucously shrieking s three low-flying witches,
ferocious and feisty, fuel the melee.
Aloft in a haystack, murmuring in a dream state,
lovers snuggle closer, their bliss is complete.
Relinquishing their roosts, bats swoop erratically,
plunging, they snatch stray moths into eternity.
Oblivious to these dramas, the lovers, softly cradled,
breathe peacefully in unison as the goblins pass by.