Hainted
Cotton gins
echo
wing beats
of martin birds
and bats
borrowing time
from tomorrow's
dawn.
In the cool
night
warehouse dark
mice
move up and down,
suicide runs,
squeaking like
the tennis shoes
on waxed wood.
In the distance,
resounding around
the bend of the
creek bed
and the snow-white
silver limestone walls,
a shotgun blast
is muffled
down to a small
low rumble,
belying the destructive
flash that was the
last thing
one coyote ever
saw.
The Hickory nuts
land with a "thud"
all hours of the
night, while their branches
crack and snap
loudly in the
midnight wind.
Hoodoo hexes
scratched into
birch bark telling
secrets
to the needles and leaves.
Hoodlums
hold open a
concrete crypt
to smash the innards
like so many pumpkins,
and sacrificed
cats,
their entrails
scattered about
the grass
or the brick wall
or maybe asphalt
county lines.
All the Saints
come out to wail
and faces paint
their flickering smiles
all over the dark.
