there’s a devil in the pines –
half-blonde, half-brunette.
antler and auburn by day –
sank and sable by dusk.
moving bipedal, patchworked with mange
across pine needles at fourth degree gait –
bat-winged and taloned, perched at windows
with the face of a shrew and eyes of serpentine.
if your stare happens up high, there you’ll find
roaming at pine’s zenith, like a parliament –
all of his hundred eyes overlooking the barrens
keeping prey followed – each never founded.
step wary – don’t forsake the warning
of no cicada-song or crickets chirping.
if heard or seen, there’s no risk to his legend –
just your story – picked clean of all sentence.