Hidden Things

The skirling of the killdeer
and clatter of its wings
as I pass by the field here
alarms the hidden things.

My feet are on the pathway
and will not leave its stone;
what cringes here I can’t say.
I do not walk alone.

The starlings rise and gather
along the power line
while others keep to shadow,
well out of sight and mind.

From hence will I go homeward
to shelter in my turn
alike from owl and snowstorm
and cold whose touch can burn,

for like the night descending
comes fear on raven wings.
I’ll run to earth and rest there
with all the hidden things.