PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

When i was a child, I ran though the woods, on a dirt path behind the barn of the neighbor's farm. I was with three friends that autumn day, all just into our teens.

We plowed down alder lanes and plotted treetop palaces. It was a warmish October day, and the woods road we were following was overhung with birches and maples in colorful confusion.

We saw the pit with the dead horses piled high in an uncovered grave. Their yellow bones showed through their rotting hides. The stench drove us away, not to mention the morbid creepiness.

Then we heard the sound of saddlery creaking, wheels grinding and a muffled hee and haw. A horse-drawn sleigh with Old Man Wetmore at the reins and his feared son Piggy seated beside him came around the turn. Big dogs loped alongside the carriage, slavering tongues in their open jaws.

We quickly dashed into the woods by the trail, and barely had time to hide behind the nearest trees. Just as we thought they would pass, one huge mastiff entered the trees, sniffing the air, his ears questing for any noise. He stopped four steps beside me and my thin tree, sensing me yet not seeing me. I could have reached out and touched him, he was so close. If he turned his head with the slobbering jaws and darting tongue my way, I was lost.

Then was it Piggy or the old man, a whistle pierced the air, and the beast bounded off. I didn't move a muscle until I was sure they were gone, then lit out, back the way through the trees and headed for home.