Darkness rides hard like a witch at sabbat
Howling, she puts her spurs down to blood
My sore feet cannot move fast enough
over the briar-woven forest floor.
There are answering calls to the east
and in a blue, wide clearing of the woods we meet,
drenched in moonlight.

There is no hope, I see
for these renegade witches have no
cloven-hooved master to rein them in.
They cackle with glee,
their voices like gravel under rolling wheels.
We are slaves beneath our sinister cargo and
I cannot see the faces of my comrades.

We circle wide,
higher and higher until we reach the treetops.
Hazel whip against my ribs and
I dream of morning.

~Laura Heilman
2009