A mourning veil of grey mist shrouds the lake.
Blowing in the winds icy breath.
Not this wind’s blue tongue that causes the frail body to shiver, and gooseflesh to appear on sallow skin.
Nor the flickering light of the lantern,
That casts light on the great gnarled fingers of the forest bones, white against the night sky.
His hands, cracked and fingernails, broken and bleeding carry.
Cold nails of forest ancients, picking at the cloak on his back, unhappy with this deadly pursuit.
“Go back,” they whisper.
“Hurry, run for your life, Go Back!”
Wise field mice take heed the warning and run blindly into the night, over rotting boots.
Wet leaves mix with sweaty, wool socks that slip in the forest tomb.
A branch breaks, somewhere near.
Wary eyes open wide, and strain in the darkness, seeing nothing.
A rustle of leaves under a bush and his breath rattles in the lungs.
Entering and leaving all too quickly- for fear of his being the last.
Lantern swings wildly and catches a glimmer,
Yellow eyes pierce the soul.
“Who goes there?” seeps from chapped lips.
Whooo, Whooo. echos the grey owl perched on a mouse, under the bush.
Breath returns to a relieved body, his mind laughing with madness.
So silly to be scared of nothing.
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