Barbara Swander Miller

A shaft of moonbeam
pierced the upper 
pane of glass, 
so bright that 
as it hit my face, 
I thrashed,
untangling my 
restless legs
from the crisp percale 
that imprisoned them.

Wadded now where 
the foot of my bed met 
the sloping ceiling, 
my sheets
released me 
to the light’s 
magnetic pull. 

Cool, rough floorboards
told me I wasn’t dreaming
as I padded across our
bedroom, hers and 
mine.

Don’t wake her!

The blue-white light beamed onto
my bare toes, their
rosy nails shimmering
with each step
I took toward 
the open window.

Her heavy breathing,
in - out, in - out,
steady as my well-wound watch 
but with a 
raspy undertone
from the golden 
hayfields nearby, 
gave a slow rhythm 
to my tippy-toed dance.

Do they want her?
Or just me?

My freckle-tanned hands, 
now white in the moonlight, 
grasped the painted sill.
I pulled at my nightshirt 
and kneeled into 
the chair below.

Are they here?

I pressed my tender-red
nose into the screen’s
rusty wire mesh and 
inhaled metal, 
while I surveyed 
the inky sky.

Careful! 
Don’t startle them away!

Twisting into position,
I watched the moonbeam shift. 
Like a spotlight, 
its ray panned to
the garage roof, 
where dark gray 
asphalt shingles sparkled, 
and then onto
the dewy grass below.

There they are!

Two spherical heads
leaned together, as if in
silent consultation.
With sleek bodies and sloping necks, 
like some primitive birds 
whose tail feathers lifted in 
a proud pose, 
they bobbed and spoke 
in their hushed language.

But I understood! 
Somehow, 
deep inside my head, 
I knew
I’d seen them before!

They’re baumpies!

From the shadows, 
two smaller beings
hovered, inching 
ever nearer.
They had no tails, just 
round heads, thin necks, 
and smooth bodies- 
like overgrown bowling pins
suspended above 
the grass waiting for 
a game to begin.

The baumpies pivoted
their heavy, wide bodies 
toward the others
and leaned 
their sphere-heads closer.
The little ones 
bobbed and twirled
in delight.

Then, in perfect unison, 
the four creatures
- two large and two small - 
lifted their round heads up,
up, toward me.

Do they know I'm watching them?

The spotlight followed their gaze, 
back across the rooftop 
and into my face,
blinding me
as my eyes narrowed
still trying to 
see their faces.

Do they have faces?

PING!
A Junebug hit the screen.
And another!
I flinched. 
And blinked.
Then the night 
turned to pitch. 

Nothing was visible
outside my bedroom window,
not even the stars.

The baumpies had taken
their brilliant light 
with them!

“What did you want?”
I asked,
gazing into the 
blank night.
“Did you come for me?”

“We’ll be back,”
the silent voices in my head 
replied.

“Until then,
you have her.”