Is it the lonely, unlit path touched only by a goose-bumped night? Might it be the blood-swollen gasp of some unwitting creature's last bid for life?
If it's not the darkness that leads us to the edge of the woods in a moonless hour, if it's not the trees with their arms reaching, a spotted owl peeling back the night's skin, it must be the idea of passing through like a wolf's red breath,
the notion that if we linger long enough, we might learn something that will make the night's white snap worth the weight of a rabbit's foot left alone at the base of a tree, an offering, a charm a Boy Scout might find and pocket for luck.
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