day 4: witches' woods

Back in the day,

you were warned of the woods--

to wander there was to forfeit yourself

to the ones who lived among the trees,

    waiting for the snap of a branch on the forest floor

    the labored breath of a tired drifter,

    the high timber of young voices,

before swooping in and grabbling hold

with talons for hands

and an appetite for life.

These days we stake out parking lots

and wait for the fog to roll in

    on the last car there,

and the last person to leave.

The air is damp enough to creep under your coats

and hug you in shivers,

and the mist thin enough that you can make out

the outlines of the sparse, displacd branches

lit by diffused metal halide.

If you stop walking long enough

to let the echoes of your footsteps fade,

you may hear the buzzing of the lights

    and the soft gnashing of our teeth.

Same as it's been for centuries,

preying on the lone.

Was that car there before?

    I locked myself out. Can you help me get in?

    Talons?

Don't go, please, it's so cold,

    And we've been hungry for so long...

Back in the day,

you were warned of the woods;

the trees may be different,

but we never left.