Black Meander

The old cabin whinged,
its clapboard floor, nails half popping up
sagged here and there, like a drunkard
righted in corners by a hand to a wall;
outside a wind stirred,
and leaves piled up along the cracked
masonry, puffing little breaths
into the cold recesses of the root cellar,
hinges creaking noisily on the bulkhead.
There were howls in the orchard,
the bray of hounds echoing somewhere
over the lot, next to the hay field,
the dividing wall a drizzle of asphalt,
a meandering black course through rocks and thorns.

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