Dusk draws the shores close,
pulls the cloud down
and whispers frightful things.

Those with the right ears hear it all.

The toads stare across the misted water,
blankly expecting the unexpected.
It's best not to travel these stifled,
reeded canals by night.

A hooded figure stalks the shadows
behind the huts.
The boats bob nervously on the shallow ripples,
tied fast, not to stray.

Quietly, the figure moves,
observing, commanding something
from the dank air,
as though even that is within control.

As deep as the forbidden wood,
the humid, croaking paddy,
whereinfrom, the hooded figure came and comes,
each dusk,
to observe.