It’s narrow and winding,
strewn with pine needles.
My arm brushes against wet leaves,
twigs crunch like cereal underfoot.
Something in the air says
I’ve entered a lingering scene
involving last night’s new moon.
Luna moths float at eye level,
as if pale leaves drifting.
The syrupy scent of spider orchid
nectar attracts them still.
Bobcat pug marks blend
with red viscera in damp soil
and I sweat, hindered
by a trellis of smilax,
thorns catching on my elbow,
vines entangle my shoe.
Trees shiver drops down
my neck and arms. Gnarled limbs
shape into shadows that slough
my importance like shed skin.
And with light dropping through
a muddling network of here and there
urging me forward
the feel of the word path bites,
leaves a swollen, rambling itch.
Christine Cock
Christine has spent her life of working with endangered species and in zoo conservation. She has a BA in Creative Writing and has been published in many journals and anthologies. The natural world is her muse. She lives in the woods of Florida with her husband and dogs.