I swam into the sky,
charmed the moon, the stars,
and you
all before lunch.

“The Mayor’s Pipe” they called it,
a towering construct which loomed high
over the rustic village
cradled in the valley.

And from time to time
The Pipe would start to smoke
and puff out wisps of incensed smoke
for hours upon end.

The village men would celebrate this
as a sign of luck and fortune.
The village women merely smiled
and kept their secrets to themselves.

Down whirling eddies
of wicked winds,
across shadow-cast mountains
and eager, hushed valleys,
’til I alight at your window
and find you waiting, hungrily.