Moonrise behind you,
From the edge of the woods
Toward the house-lights.
Didn’t you plan to be indoors
Before the bats began their hunt,
Before your shadow left you ‘til morning?
Only an hour ago,
Your eyes in pain,
Curled upon the forest floor.
When you called out for help,
And there was no answer,
Whose face did your hatred find?
Those waiting inside ask about the blood.
Truthfully, that you walked
Into a low-hanging branch.
Will you tell them about the fear
That still clings to you like the pine
Needles grasping at your wet coat?