smoke seemed to rise from the old shack at the bottom of the hill.

i imagine

antlers spanning four feet

a collection of shotguns lined against the wall

a bearskin rug with decades worth of

dust, grime and decay

and the ghosts of bearded hunters.

the dark green woods hide

empty and unmarked wells,

broken pieces of porcelain.

in the winter every creak is a stone amongst stone

i imagine

long hair

dirty nails

emaciation.

an eye for an eye, but he couldn't even do that

just shout and scratch and disappear.