Photo by J. R. Korpa
Dark Draw
Ellen Wynne Drowsy, chill on my skin, heady, sweet camellia scent filling my nose, I follow the curves of a concrete river, past houses where electric lights buzz, bravely holding back dark, looming woods. Half outside the circle of streetlamps, I stop, stare down past pine trunks, through tangled underbrush into deep, unknowable black, wondering, what is it in me that calls out to abandon the path home for a cold bed of earth and slick, leath'ry leaves, surrender the warmth of this clay shell to fall in with the horde of ancient, nameless things swelling and ebbing in shadow? |