• Gary Hunter

Miss that Hedgerow - Dec. 29, 2021

that sliver of untrimmed trees

and bloated bushes splitting

the Johnson and Mistretta yards

it held a path generations of little feet

had worn when I entered it one day

my favorite tunnel of green and shadowed

secrets the lives lived in rabbit holes

sometimes the notes of a fox mixed

with the smell of some creature’s fear

or deer prints of one singly unnerved

or a family hidden from a bright

and dangerous world


also broken beer bottles candy

wrappers a featherless arrow

two golf balls and there today

wedged in a broken branch

partly covered by leaves

yesterday’s missing foul ball


squinting I stumbled through a shrub

moved quickly to his window and with

the exciting news held in my hand

knocked


remembering this very minute

this was the one and only time

I entered any friend’s house

through the back door

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