I hear his truck throw gravel
so I go hide in the woods.
He looks for me, thinking I am
somewhere between the rabbit cages
and the goat pen but I am not.
I watch him from the creek.
He doesn’t think to look there
and yells my name—
as if I would come.

Maple leaves gargle his throat-call
and I squat thinking of ways
to kill him. He hasn’t quit looking
for me yet and scans the tree line.
I bet he is angry now,
his face turning beer-cooler red.
He knows I’m hiding,

walks back to his truck
and grabs another Miller High Life.
I go deeper into the woods,
pick-up that heavy shovel I left
when I buried the litter of Flemish Giants
the dogs ate on. He’ll stumble
through here soon enough

and I’ll be waiting.