You may spy,
Those who visit us.
They dart in and out,
From their realm to ours,
Crossing the barrier,
A carrier of warning to some,
A bug bouncing to others,
But what cast’s their shadow is not such a creature…
Around the ground,
Momentarily,
And without notice,
They vanish again.
Shadows dancing.
But a hat and a jumper can make a man,
So what can manifest such a wriggly,
Speeding thing?
Some call them the Fiskur,
A sign of coming weather,
A warning to the fishermen,
That wild storms approach.
Some call them the Parvi,
A portent of danger and death,
That the farmer must heed,
For pestilence may surface.
For others,
They are just a mystery.
Midges, Dragonflies or such,
That drift around,
With no intention,
No retention of promise,
To release a problem.
Once,
A blind man,
Known only as Narre Mand,
Caught one,
In his hands.
He swore,
It whispered to him,
Something about the coming days,
When worlds would collide,
And from the haze,
Erupt a new age,
But he never revealed,
Whether it had said,
If that was a good thing.
Whatever their motive,
Whatever their means,
They are but a dream.
And forever will they meander,
In the corner of our eye,
In the corner of our lives.