A portion of Riverdale is dead.

Deer flinch with fright,

turn to the high country instead.

You don’t enter at night.


Sounds , you do not hear.

I chose to turn back ’round.

Silence produces fear.

no footprints on the ground.


A brisker pace back to green

black nightfall without much moon

men try but never again seen.

heading back not a moment to soon.