Moonlit and dew-soaked,
cold, hungry and tired.

Scanning the dark brush for movement.
Hoping not to find it.

Eerie construction, lingering,
damp with overtones of murder and evil.
The creaking floor boards don't help.

Windowless wooden world,
too still not to be plotting.
Too small not to have a few secrets.

The water down the hill makes more noise.
The birds make more noise.
My breath makes more noise.

Across the clearing,
vulnerable,
in view.

The pale light hints at safety
that works both ways.

Shadows work both ways, too.
I stick to the edge,
where my eyes have adjusted,
creeping at a snail's pace,
alert for every insect,
every cracking twig.

The edge.

Dawn's distant headlights
skim the treetops, weakly,
dribbling hope, in slivers,
down the sawtooth bark of uninviting cover.

It's too quiet.

Every night, I scour the places
where the moon cannot reach,
and every night, I fail
to find a hole to crawl into,
safe from the night
and its prying fingers.

It's too quiet.

Even for me.