Riders of the Moon-Tide

Moon,

your horns call them forth—

riders of storm and shadow,

their hounds baying across the marrow of the hills.

The earth shivers when their hooves strike the sky.

I lay myself low among roots and stones,

but still I see them:

helmets glinting like cold stars,

eyes like coals,

a thousand strong,

thunder bound to fire.

Moon, tell me—

if they take me,

will I vanish into their number?

Or return as echo only,

a horn in the hollow trees,

a hoofprint pressed in moss?

Still, I watch.

Still, I listen.

For even fear longs to join the procession

that runs forever beneath your light.