Mid summer bakes the crispy pines
and stills the deep dark hardwood hollows
as deer quickly grow their tines.
Evenings are filled by darting swallows.

Here where The South came to its end,
where life moves at a slower pace,
all of the locals still pretend
that Abbeville holds naught but grace.

They act as if he is not there.
They shrug off those gone missing in the fall.
It's almost as if they don't care.
Until the autumn leaves begin to fall.

But for now his sleep is sound
in one of many old gold mines
whose entrance is hidden, almost bound
by rustling dense green kudzu vines.

For in this last month of fierce heat
stirring begins in that hidden keep.
The wicked heart increases beat
and restlessness disturbs his sleep.

For autumn will be coming soon,
then the month of falling leaves.
And in that cooling month's full moon
that heart will wake and joints unfreeze.

Who knows who will disappear.
Who dares discard the old wive's tale.
Who will die in sudden fear.
As death once more stalks forest's trail?