Witching Hour

A god, they call him

that sets ablaze the morning.

He can keep his bland light

and his lumbering chariot.

For me the blackness of the night.

The chilly breeze beckons,

charged

with a thousand possibilities.

I soar,

the wood slim and firm

between my thighs.

My laughter fills the sky like moonlight.

The witching hour, they call it.