I hear the taunting whisper of the wind
I am the only one who can.

The ripe blackberries are rich with color
And the wicked symphony of branches cocks its head
Ready to spit the hidden bullets
Out of the dark chamber of the tangles.

A rusty swing creaks over the worn tread in the grass
Something was weighing it down before

I glance to my left, but that is all I need to see
The sun casts a shadow
Different hues dance in the light

The wind whips up my hair
Carving the sound of a crack in my dry skin
And sending chills down my reddening spine

The place I call home
Is an acquired taste.