Sometimes the night

In the small cold hours,
I am silent in my library, with its
old leather smells and the yellow light
And the weight of a volume in my lap
And think myself safe.

But sometimes the night calls me.

I hear the wind mourn at my door as it claws,
tosses oak branches that whisper together.
Away in the distance, high in the fey hills,
the Piper raves wildly, the Hounds sob and cry,
the Huntsman is riding in search of his prey.
He sounds his horn, summoning wild things to join him
the night elves are caught like the leaves of November
in a flurry of hooves, dark eyes aglitter,
they ride behind him, seeking their quarry,
the pack draws closer, the horn is calling
the old oak stirs, takes a step, reaches in
and I rush to my door, but too late--
they are gone.