Idlechild.

There is a blue night outside my window that beckons.
I am typically ignorant of howls of wind or gusts of snow, but tonight I relent.
I press my ear to cold glass, goosebumps gather on my skin.
I hear whispers. indistinguishable, faltering.
Slowly they solidify and echo back in waves:

hear us. here we are. know us as we know you.
you are everywhere but where we choose to be, for that be grateful.
now is your chance. abandon thought, abandon speech. we are here.
this is the harvest; these sacred hours bend for seldom few. 
fluid is the space between two types of beast. 
hear us. we plead for you, your beating heart.

 A four-second stillness inside of my chest.

underneath my skin there is a sudden urge to fight,
Like a battle cry made of shivering bones to which I must respond.
I put on my coat, knowing soon I will have no need for warmth.
My hat, shoes, gloves. Somehow,there is comfort in finality.
For a moment, I think of goodbyes, but to whom? I have no words.
Only some sort of stir, some sort of rift, some sort of guide,
That tells me I am not meant for boundaries of flesh.
Once more I press my ear to glass, then my lips
Whisper to them of my arrival with my soon-begotten tongue:

i hear. i come.