At dusk, when the day turns orange, then pink, then purple, spanning the color spectrum in the time it takes to walk home from the park, the ghosts come out. You may see them for only ten or fifteen minutes, in that bright, liminal space before the night turns black and stars wink on like dots of spilt honey, but you will see them if you look closely. You might mistake them for seagulls, confused at finding themselves so far inland, stretching their white shrouds like sharp pointed wings against the last light of the day. Other evenings they will seem as crows, cacophonous and frantic, or perhaps like a ribbon of bats, well rested and blinking in the haze. They come to beckon, to remind, to haunt.
Happy Halloween. . .