Roy and Me

It was noon.
The sky was clear.
The sun was bright.
Yet in the woods,
it seemed to be night.

Dark versions of
colors of green,
merged ahead.
The black bark
of each
thick trunk
allowed the trees
to hide
the path
we tread.

We crunched
the leaves
and twigs
under our feet,
mingling those sounds,
with haunting hoots,
of single owl.

But my cousin Roy,
walked boldly ahead.
He found the swamp
nestled in the dark,
and together we
dared to enter.

We found our way across,
walking fallen trees
as if on a tight rope,
daring not to look down.
Downward casts into
a murly black pit,
not so much water as muck.

Yet the moss covered trunks
on which we creep
slid our feet,
toward each
rounded side.

Still, Roy walks faster,
daring the swamp,
as he continues to saunter.
He looks back at me,
with an instant glee,
knowing to find
the fear
I've encountered.

And as he does,
his foot
slides forward.

And as fast as he looked
there was a splash,
and in that splash
I saw,
the face of Roy,
his body
disappeared,
under the murky
depth.

He then
suddenly appeared,
his hair,
dark as the water,
poker straight
and drooling.
No longer had he
a face of glee.

We sauntered home,
Roy and me.