What’s that at which you’re peering

Amid the trailside clearing?

What’s that in the leaves,

Where the dappled glimmer cleaves

The forest’s noonday night?

.

It’s some garbage; it is nothing;

At least that’s what I’m hoping.

I don’t like how the aspens sway

Or how the flitting shadows play

In the grove’s miasmic light.

.

It’s not ours to save the day;

There’ll be a price to pay;

Drop that stick and quit your poking;

Unhallowed things you’re stoking

And our sleep will bear the blight.

.

Back away, delete the picture;

Come let’s heed the copper’s stricture,

It’s time we’d best be going;

Look – the coydogs come a’loping

And the birds are taking anxious flight.

.

The slope they’ve cordoned off

Where the earth runs damp and soft;

The sky is swiftly darkening,

We’d best be homeward harkening

And pray we don’t dream of the sight.

. . .

.

Copyright © 2017 by M.G. Warenycia