Treehouse

Phillip Cerwin

Uncle walked in with his brows wrinkled and asked What can you hear? The ash-wood flooring contracted in the autumn air and the ancient cabin whined. Find your boots and hold the gun; the Georgia night tasted like rust. Copper feathers fringed the hen house. Black branches of the tree line scarred the horizon and the sanguine moon was sacrificed on the western ridge; its indiscretion poured over the countryside. The bloodhound begged the dirt with his nose and we flanked around the St. Mary’s River before the water could wash away the trail. The red light that preserved our vision in the dark reflected vile in pairs of eyes between the trees. Sometimes, they would turn and try to hide within the columns of cotton. Other times, they would try to ford the water and perish in the inarticulate current. Once, Uncle heard of a fisherman out on the delta who saw a scarlet shadow swimming against the onyx waves out into the Atlantic.

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Phillip Cerwin studies criminology, psychology, and poetry at UNC Wilmington. He has previously won the Erma Drum Poetry Competition.

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