Witching Hour

Unholy whispers
swivel through the air
I hear them, I hear them.
Ghosts and spirits
whisk in the shadows, studying me.
They scrape
in the gutters with the
dry, dead leaves.
It's time to lock my windows,
my doors, to crouch on the floor,
and look up at the coal-black sky.
The pitch black night sky.
The moon, a blank orb,
hangs in wait.
There!
Witches swish to the sky
leaving their wake full of
cackles and cries!
Come play, they say. Come play!
Tonight their mischief is
expected.
As they dip and dive, black
hair twisting behind them, eyes
ablaze, hellish and excited,
we hide. This, this
is the witching hour.