She watched the Spanish moss tremble like brittle, witch hair, from the tree top canopy.
She swayed in the tire swing, to the tempo followed by the fauna of the faux ceiling.
Fayish brow radiant. Macabre grin smeared like lipstick across her wet lips.
The full moon loomed much larger than the sun. Hanged very near to the horizon.
And, the sun clearly existed to cast its light onto a face of the moon.
The moon existing to reflect the light.
Beguiled. Not mislead or manipulated.
So, breathe and find your space. Set it.
Sit on the floor and command a stunned crowd.
Crickets’ legs start singing in the midst of your wake.
Hyenas and spiders, hucksters and tricksters, wipe slates clean and call themselves rock stars.
An amplified battalion of holy Roman candles.
She swings on the rubber pendulum and watches them burn out, one by one by one.
And, they make her feel timeless as she watches their combustible timelines fly violently up, by, and, past hers.
And, the world around her transitions from dusk to dark.
And, this is howl she howls.
Shielded by the shadow of the tree from which she swings,
pitching her head back and pushing her face skyward,
she takes a deep breath in with her mouth.
And, she forces the air hard and fast from her lungs, back out of her humid mouth.
The anatomical line is straight.
She lets it whisper a vibration over her vocal chords; plucking a hushed, prolonged “ha” from the guttural.
And, she feels all her venom pouring out like ectoplasm at a traditional Victorian seance. It is ebony while everything else has gone red.
And, she swears she has forgotten howl to breathe; but, then she recalls she is unable to remember what made her believe she needs to breathe at all.