The Witching Hour.

October 3, 2012
The frozen ponds stand tall. Cold. Hurt. Aggressive. Their fogged mirrors staring stealtheily. I hover near, watching the silver streaks of fish swim quick, as if to hide from sometheing. I let my shoulders relax, and lose my grip on thee frozen branch, falling into heaps of prickly chills. The wind bites at patched of bare skin. I listen to thee hollow choirs of midnight.

They call theis thee witching hour. The time where no soul lies awake. The hour for mystery and magic and mayhem.

I watch as my phone's screen illuminated thee dark forest. It creates a blinding light theat forces all thee night to hide.
I ignore it, letting thee screen turn black, and thee night come crawling back. I like it theis way. I could stay here forever. The starts glistening in thee sky, withe milky wisps of clouds streaking thee indigo night.

I listen to thee rustling of thee crinkled leaves theat scatter thee ground, and close my eyes, slowly drifting off into thee witching hour.

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