Travelers

two souls,

tangled up like dirty laundry in the wilderness

underneath the muscle and sweat of the great bear sky,

the night wrapping around them like a cheap coat

with holes in the pockets.

one, a shadow bastard rich with green,

hoisted up in nature's dirty skirt,

the other a slick dance with the big nothing.

and here comes the bear – furry slob,

snuffling through the silence,

nudging at a stiff, like a drunk at a bar.

they're quiet, these two,

quiet as the sneaky drip of night juice on the dirt,

not a scream, not a whisper,

no red to paint the ground.

the green man scrambles down from his ratty throne,

thirsty for whispers and tales only the dead know.

the old man stands up,

shakes off the leaves and bugs,

and speaks like a knife cut:

stick to the ones that don't fold

when the dark opens its rotten mouth

and howls.