Lena is heavily pregnant. She won’t come down to the road. Her dogs are out, and I must pass. The wolf dog circles behind me. I swivel to meet his unblinking grey gaze.
Copper, the hound, is all aggression, awakening the same in the others. Lena saved them from neglect, and I applaud her. But I must walk the two miles to my horse and ride today.
They won’t stray far from their home, Honey tells me. How shall I pass unscathed? All nine of them approach, and I am filled with sputtering power. She has given me poppers to keep them at bay. I fidget with my pocket.
I cannot make the fireworks crack. Pop them on the road, she said. Honey can handle anything: She’s managed to endure the worst. I step and turn, send sparks from my eyes.
open trail beyond the timber rattler
is a poet and artist who lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of western North Carolina. Her poems appear in Under the Basho, Failed Haiku, Telling Our Stories Press, Hawaii Pacific Review, and elsewhere.
