The sound of hounds
under the sycamores pulsed
the air. A fog shadowed the
ground, concealing weeds and
rocks. A horn, a phantom sound
suspended above,
Slithered like a snake over tree
tops. Fence posts boarded the
field, like cardboard soldiers locking
barbed wire arms. A brown light of
dusk muddied the sky. Bats easily
curved swiftly above. Tree shadows
resembled black veins until night
faded the images out.
Roger Singer 