Perched on a milestone,

Spy considered offers from fylgjur,

haunting woods like fox wraiths.

Night worn as a cloak, tired bones

aching under breeze ruffled feathers,

his conspiracy betrayed by brother silhouettes

circling in tempered moonlight.

Revealed by flecks of white in beads of jet,

he watched ghost clouds drift like lost leaves,

disturbing stars floating on the edge of eternity,

and looked to his own flight home.

But dawn found him sightless and stiff;

lights extinguished, in shadow of stone,

some fifteen years from his birth

in the boughs of Yggdrasil,

where he’d first told Odin

the secrets of men.