never comes

walking beside a creek at night,

a beer in hand,

you hear the frogs and the crickets and mosquitos;

and you know the part where the foliage opens up

but this time

no moon or stars

but the complete blackness of an overcast winter night.

the shadows made by your torch creep and hover,

the slight gurgling and sucking of the water

sounds like the drowning of an animal,

like a sheep or a fox.

you make your way down to the farmhouse.

piss. 

shit.

go to sleep.

the morning never comes.