The Mists of October

Wings

The satyr Pan

Through the brush of the forest

Watched wide-eyed as the Nymphs,

Messengers of Artemis,

Lay in their lush meadow,

Awaiting news of their lady.

At once, a dreamy memory emerged 

Of those virgin sapphics that,

In his youth,

Called upon his cicada chorus

To ideally pass their lazy afternoons.

And so, a flute's note rang,

Sharp! Trill! And true,

Disturbing the fretting Lark from her worm,

The Hawk from his hunt, 

And the Nymphs from their rest. 

But Pan watched in horror

As from the Nymph's forbidden circle,

The cicadas for whom he had called 

Crawled wingless through the leaf litter

Toward their god agape. 

The smallest nymph, Rhanis,

Then raised her face in delight

And in all earnest smiled at her revealed admirer,

Iridescent wings slipped into her teeth

And the souls of the singing wood in her stomach.