Beyond the Ring of Light

The fire burns low, I feed it twigs,

the woods pull in their light.

Beyond the ring of orange glow

the dark sits thick as night.

*

A branch snaps somewhere past the trees,

too far for me to see.

I tell myself it's just a deer

and not a thing watching me.

*

The wind dies down, the leaves go still,

the air turns thick and slow.

I feel a weight that wasn't there

a minute back or so.

*

I keep my eyes set on the flame,

I will not turn around.

Some fears grow bigger when we face them,

so I listen to the sound.

*

A twig snaps closer than the last,

right at the edge of sight.

I tell my hands to hold still,

and they hold still, but tight.

*

The shadows stretch a little longer

than shadows ought to grow.

I count my breaths instead of looking

at what I do not know.

*

The fire pops, a spark jumps up,

and for one breath it's bright.

I swear I see a shape step back

into the edge of light.

*

I do not run, I do not turn,

I only add more wood.

The fire knows I need it brighter

than maybe fire should.

*

The sky turns gray, the birds wake up,

the night lets go its hold.

I never learn what watched me there—

I only know I'm cold.

*

I pack my bag, I leave the ring

of ash still warm and round.

And though I walk away from it,

I still don't trust the sound.

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