In the eyes of beholder

The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them, They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them, And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.

W.Whitman

       They stand in silence, thin and tiny, like stalks in November or forgotten candles, or marshmallows with eyes of tin. They might be ridiculous but are not, or only until you touch them and jerk back your hand. Their bodies are pale, almost translucent, as if the wind could pass through them and leave no trace. Still they are no ghosts but beings of flesh. They gather in handfuls, in hosts, in hordes, rootless, restless, drawn to the horizon like a compass needle. Of all horizons, they prefer the ones made of salty water (like themselves?). Maybe they think the waves are their kin? Simple, seemingly identical, countless. They do not speak, but their minds hum, a low, electric lisp, a telepathic chorus of longing and light. (Do they connect to the sea waves as well? Ask Moominpappa. He might know.) Their protozoan minds are not separated yet from hearts or guts. More complex beings, knotted in internal conflicts, envy them. They travel in packs, barely touching the ground, firmly fixed to the line where the sky meets the water and the world begins again. They are not bound by time, nor by place, only by the pull of the unknown, the promise of something they cannot name. They are strange, these Hattifatteners, their unity unnerving, their silence profound. They do not eat, do not sleep, do not dream— or perhaps they dream of horizons, of storms, of the crackle of lightning that binds them together, one mind, one pulse, one endless yearning. And when the storm comes, they stand tall as grass or candles, their bodies glowing, with the energy of the sky’s fury. They do not fear it; they are it. And when it passes, they move on, always on, toward the next horizon, the next storm, the next silent, electric moment of being.