Till Dusk

we sprint along thick

wooded air looking

for an escape from the lost

darkness

spells of unknown origin

brew in a distant light

the wind howls fiercely

at Summer‘s end

as brightly colored leaves crunch beneath us

our hallowed ground beckons

and we follow, compelled once

again to the strange scent of what can

only be described as children’s

laughter

or screams

or something much worse

cauldrons filled with roiling soup

meat, fork tender as love, freely

given

the wave of screams suddenly

turn into chanting

and in the brief half-light

you can see the cauldron

steaming, the dark green skin

the current air of silent

watchfulness, the air filled

with the smell of boiling flesh