Bryon Hardt
Untitled
The frost upon the ground a freeway for the wind at night, the bitter chill reminiscent of a book that said wolves hunted in packs. Windstorms swim through the trees, an echoing howl. Under a black moon a child seemingly unaware, looking brave. I showed my father a mask of indifference to the wilderness. I stood boldly, holding the bag, looking brave, the dark wind wrapping itself around me. But I was afraid, fearing the dark, the wind, the wolves. Until my father struck match to lantern, the darkness recoiling around us as if the howling wolf packs made it jump.
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Eastern Exposure