October’s Holler

You enter October on a moonless night,
where the old hills gather darkness around them
while crimson leaves spin across the holler
like scraps torn from a book of forbidden words.
A raven lifts from a dead limb,
and its cry crosses the valley with such sorrow
that even the stars seem to withdraw
from whatever waits past the last bridge.

Further into October, the fields turn the color
of dried blood beneath a dying moon,
while the wind moves through the bare branches
with a voice that carries from another world.
You watch a white mist gather around the hillside,
curling through the weeds and over the graves,
and in that darkness a train whistle rises,
pulling you deeper into the holler of October.

You follow the sound before the final note fades,
and it continues through the silence,
coming first from the hill, then from the holler,
then from the cellar where the dead were buried.
A shadow crosses the wall beside you
while the room grows colder around its presence,
and when you turn toward the empty doorway,
another whistle tears across the darkness.

Morning finds the town covered in crimson,
with ravens circling above the hills
while the last traces of darkness withdraw
into places sunlight can never reach.
Since that night, each visit to October brings the same whistle,
and each year you hear it farther down the holler,
calling from a place where the dead keep watch
over every soul foolish enough to listen.