The hounds pound out a trail like hot iron.
The pines surround his house in a green mother’s hug.
Nestled in his chair before the fireplace,
He takes long slow pulls of Jack and listens as each bark
becomes a little more urgent than the last.

Red embers fade in and out like old christmas lights.
He crumbles forward as an empty clink lands next his chair.
The pain in his stomach feels like cold hands
run across a briar vine, as the voice of hounds
fades into the pines.