The watchers

the shrill screech of whistles fills the night air,
accompanied by shouting in three different languages
“they’re coming, they’re coming”
“they’re almost here”

footsteps pound the icy streets,
running for a place to hide from the invaders
helping others along the way, raising the alarm
screaming for their neighbors

more sounds piercing the cold air, frantic now,
yelling and whistling, it’s almost too late
“they’re here, they’re here”
“go inside, lock your doors”

lights off, hiding in their homes,
desperate not to make a sound
heavy boots crunching on the packed snow just outside,
a hard knock on the door