The Hound

The Hound 

A hound’s in the woods tonight. 

I can hear him but I see only eyes, 

two glasses flashing in two milky skies. 

The hound wakes the locals. His bark’s  

an echo of timber and water and 

his mission is as clear as the stars 

now in full roll.                                                                     

O like an everglades’ burn 

the hound illuminates, he flushes out 

the rabid packs and sends them down 

to lower parts where no treelines  

can be found, much less traced. 

Tell the hound I’m with him. 

Tell the hound I know his name 

but won’t spill it because like him 

I wait for early bright and something clear. 

Then the hound will watch the cockcrow’s 

indigo turn red and later a color of day 

when we’ll both sleep till street lights  

torch again. 

L. Ward Abel

L. Ward Abel, poet, composer, teacher, retired lawyer, lives in rural Georgia, has been  published hundreds of times in print and online, including Snow Jewel, The Reader, Yale Anglers' Journal, Versal, Words for the Wild, After the Pause, Istanbul Review, others, and is the author of one full collection and eleven chapbooks of poetry, including Jonesing For Byzantium (UKA Press, 2006),  American Bruise (Parallel Press, 2012),  Little Town gods (Folded Word Press, 2016), A Jerusalem of Ponds (erbacce-Press, 2016), Digby Roundabout (Kelsay Books, 2017), and The Rainflock Sings Again (Unsolicited Press, 2019).  

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