middleblog-a suburban babble brook book

Hole in the ground

I've decided to center everything to maybe lend a poetical flow to my blog.  So here goes! I got dirty toes,  black under my fingers, a smudge of soil on my nose and pores full of loam.  There's a hole in the ground on a slope behind my house;  a smallish hole, busily bored out of the soft warm ground by a flying insect, I think, despite its resemblance to an anthill.  I step around it as I carry my latest offering to the Wild Things to the forest's edge.  It's leftover soup stock leavings, bits of boiled bone, onion skin, longboiled carrot.  I try to keep the offerings a little further from the house in case the Wild Things don't eat it so I needn't smell it dust to dusting. 
    I step out the back door for a smoke at 10:30 at night.  The moon rides high, full and proud, bursting with Spring's potential.  There's a loud nonchalant crashing coming from the back of the house (close, I must note, to where my Wild Thing offerings were left).  I find this crashing disturbing on a soul-visceral level; frankly, I'm scared to death of it.  Mad coyote? Some last, lone wolf? Wild dog? Dumb deer? Or...the Wendigo.  I frighten myself back into the house.
    There is a long-felled tree sprawled across the back yard.  It has been cut into 3 foot lengths, and these lengths are pierced with winding holes that meander beneath the surface.  One can hear whatever It is, chewing, strong jaws creaking on the underside of the bark.  The brook babbles.