From the stillness of the black water face,
An ominous stinch with arrogant grace.
Amputated cypress stumps, witness the plight,
Squabbling speck frogs and bugs, all affright.


          "Da debbil dun flyed right out him hole,
            I's reckin dat cretur hab need fer a soul."

The pilfering fog, hued by the moon,
Cordons the willows, in come and go plumes.
The suckles and sawgrass garner a breath,
As the primative fume, acquires what's left.

          "I's neber been bery sk'yered of dat gose,
           I's creeps myse'f out my skin I knows."

His abstract abode, forcefed with light,
Foreshadowing the fin and diffusing nite.
His ancestral bag of remedies and cures,
An heir aparent to the black art's allure.

          "Cross up dem chikin bone, down on da dish,
           elebin sow hair and tree scale ob a fish."

A well bred concoction, with disproportionate chants,
The perversion of essecence, minstrels and rants.
Migrating thoughts towards HIM and HIS way,
He sanctions his heart to, come forth what may.

          "Dar dey is now pon my front dor,
            I's axting fer mercee from down on dis floor. '

His milky blue eyes, ever sticky with tears,
Allude to rememberance of his first eighty years.
His umbrage subsides, accepting his fate.
Time is at hand with the squeak of the gate.

          "Oh lords I be ready, 'cept sumpin is wrong,
           dem gose dat you sent me, deys sing'n a song."

Afront of his door with faces of black,
Outstretched before them, white pillowy sacks.
Two little reapers with no shoes on their feet,
Spoiling for goodies or something right sweet.

          "Tricks or Treat Mis'er Henry, smells our feet,
           gives us sumpin good to eat.'