The Ellis Loves: October 2026

The Ellis Loves The Dark

Step in. The boat is narrow, and the oar
is older than the ferryman who rows.
He won't say where we're headed, or what for.
He only smiles, the way a lantern glows.

The Hudson pulls its fog around the hull.
The mountains on the far side slip from view.
The lights along the Newburgh shore go dull,
and the October air goes straight on through.

Then something shifts. The current finds its speed.
The lantern flickers once, then twice, then more.
A shape slides past the bow. A branch? A reed?
A hand? It's gone. It wasn't there before.

And faster now, and deeper in the dark,
past a swinging bell, a single spark,
a pumpkin grinning in an empty park,
a dog that sees us and forgets to bark,
a candle and a mask and a question mark,
and still the ferryman hums into the dark.

Faster.

Colder.

Closer.

Hear it?

A drum.

A bassline.

Coming up through the water
like a heartbeat
under the floor.

And then the boat goes still. The fog lets go.
A door swings open on Dubois Street,
the stained glass burning amber, red, and low,
and all that dark was only there to meet
the music, and the masks, and all of you.

You asked him where the river led. He smiled.
It led here. Come in costume. Stay a while.