Horned

The part of me that used to say things and mean them is dead; there's nothing I won't swear on. But hear this.

Horned-en, give me some help with it.

Said he's a woods colt, walks sideways under the moon, has a way with edges. Says there ain't no sense marking trunks with his name—ain't a cypress left within a hundred hundred miles could hold him in a hole.

Better to meet him at the water.

Least things make sense there, least there's some fuckin' order to it all there.

Said snakes won't look at him, nor birds neither. Don't make no difference what manner or temperament. Ain't a matter of preference 'tall. Something they don't understand about the way he stands—the tilt of it, it's all wrong.

Once, something might've been done about him. Once, someone might've helped—not his place, after all. But now it's on you.