It was

bold as can be. It slunk under the fence 
and circled the tree, unfazed by a patio 
full of people nearby. It wasn't even 
the beginning of summer. A blue 
moon was rising in the sky. Everything
was yet again only doing what it was
meant to do. On the radio, someone
explained the origin of the phrase
will-o-the-wisp— fleeting and 
atmospheric, fairy light, ghost 
light. If we waved a torch at 
the creature, would it retreat? 
My bones feel hollow tonight, 
and yet they pin me to the ground.