The spindly branches of naked oaks become grasping, withered hands in the waning light. An engulfing fog obscures the peering eyes of curious nocturnals. The single light of the A-frame, jutting out of the fog and trees, offers the only refuge.
And not an inviting one.
Try to ignore every horror film motif. Silence those survival instincts that scream to turn around. Seek the ominous shelter.
What could possibly go wrong?
in the dying Autumn light
an owl in flight
the racing pulse and short breaths
as darkness descends at last
and Real Toads’ Tuesday Platform (imagined by Sanaa Rizvi)