Late Night Chores

She feels it, the thing in the woods.

Wind tugs her hair, warning turn back.

Goose flesh marches down her spine,

An urge to run, to sprint, from moon beams.

Far something, anything, might grab her from the dark.

The birds are silent with the night. Only horribles sing.

The screaming of frogs, the chatter of bugs.

She strains to hear more than the patter, patter of her heart.

Mosquitos and puddles, blemishes of mud and bites.

Flashlight beams wobble through trunks

That mark the way like towering tombstones.

The woods are her coffin, stars peak through the slats.

Her sister is calm, distant, already to the fence.

Lights bounce, pass through, she waits for her.

She runs to catch up, skitter through twisted wire.

Bad ideas, bad ideas, bad ideas.

The goats are to be put up before dark,

But they waited till the sun sank for rest.

Clumsy hands unite chains,

Leashes snap to the collar of goats.

Bleating and nibbles greet the girls.

Green jewels glint across the pasture.

Animal eyes, a raccoon, a fox, something else.

Behind her sister, through the pasture,

The trail goes back to the barn, then home.

Mud sucks at boots like hungry teeth.

Coyotes sing chaos into the night, hunting, seeking.

They are close, like the trees. Watching.

Across the creek, boards bend and stretch,

Cool water a breathe from spilling over boots.

At last, into the barn pen, goats are tucked,

One by one, to rest in shelter.

And her sister darts for the house

To leave her in the silence of her flashlight’s dying battery.

The forest watches, laughs.

Pale light scans it, the pine needle bed, the trunks.

Spider webs sparkle, beetles scurry. Something green flashes.

Back, the light dances, to nothing. Nothing.

A knot clamps her throat like a noose.

Bark breaks and falls, loud in the silence.

A cat? A creature? Something.

Hurry. Her fingers fiddle with the gate.

The lock latches as something whispers

From the woods, it beckons.

“Come here. Come see what I have found.”

The goats are calm, unbothered, tired.

She tests the gate, once, twice, then sprints.

Legs surge and beat against the path.

She dashes, sure it chases.

Faster, faster, the distance is too great.

The porch like marks safety like a lighthouse.

Her feet catch earth but she does not trip.

On, on, as the mud pelts her cheeks.

The house is empty, gloating. The porch sunken.

Her feet clop up the steps.

And as her sister laughs, she finds

No words for the fright now gone.