They Come
       

In the hour between the dog and the wolf
they come, in single file or chorus, in dactylic
measure, in trochees or in iambs. They come,
they go. I do not stop them, slippery fish
that have tackled rapids, climbed cataracts,
as is their destiny and task. I fall back to the void
of my pillow, and they dissipate. I fall back
to my dreams and my nightmares. But they
have entered, with their muscular music.
They have left their spangled scales.

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Copyright © 2021 Diane K. Martin All rights reserved
from Hue & Cry
MadHat Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission