Chicken Teeth

Uninvited

Sometimes, when it sounds like an owl, and flies like an owl... it's not an owl... sometimes, it's somethin else.

Uninvited

August's warm, twilight breeze
Freshened and spun
White paper napkins.

Twirled em, like furious little
Whirl'n Dervishes amongst
The wide, scarred plank tables
That rested in gracious repose
Under silent, ancient oaks.

Tiny gritty fingers snaked up
From under red gingham
That covered and civilized
One of the old tables --
Cloak'n bloodwounds
Only old wood remembered.

Little boys giggled, as plundered
Cookies became sweet treasure
For the insatiable pleasure of
Under-table picnic pirates.
The booty's crumbs fell to the
Destiny of hard-packed clay as the boys
Crept from table to table...
From treat to treat.

Down in the hollow, behind the
Graves, a lone owl wailed as he
Woke and soared low - tease'n the
Onyx waters of Blackcreek - slip'n
Silent, through the long shadows.

Those whose lot it was to pack up
The picnic and sweep the grounds
Shivered at the sound, as they
Counted time by the great
Predator's lonely, needful screams
And echoes, of a hunter's song.

Aunt Marella saw him first.
She looked down and nudged
Darlene with her elbow...
They watched sideways,
As he came walk'n up from Blackwater Creek...

He hadn't been invited.
For sure, he had not been invited!

He wandered from table to table,
Smiling like he knew a secret.
Women smiled right back
Like they was pure fools.

Ava Edward's fried hen breast.
Ol Miss Lucy Glower's
Blackberry'n sweet cream pie.
MeeMaw Noni's hush puppies,
Dipped in honey... all these...
And more... they was handed up like
Offer'ns to the stranger
Who had not been invited.

Some folk thought a
Storm was brew'n and
Looked up to check the sky.

Cept if they could feel him near

He tipped his black Stetson
At Ol Miss Hendricks and
Knelt to gently bring to rights
A grubby little girl in pink and lace.

The lazy Sunday afternoon
Shadows crawled across the
Little church's white clapboards.

Through the swirl of cigar smoke
And red-faced men - at the corner
Where the grounds met the graves -
He walked and shook hands and
Drank the clear grain offered
To even to the uninvited.

Magdeline was packing up her
Mama's leftover root beer ham.
Carefully nest'n the dark, pink slices
Deep in the reed basket
Alongside pickled beets and the last,
Thick slice of devil's food.

She watched without blinking
As his shadow spilled 'cross the
Old wide-plank table,
And covered her hand.

Than the tiniest shudder escaped
As she felt his thumbnail graze
The length of her tender jaw.

The great owl was silent.

© Naomi Marshall 2017

This is the story from which the poem emerged... just for fun cause I'm allowed 😏

Best read slow and southern...
He hadn't been invited. For sure, he had not been invited. Smiling like he knew a secret, he wandered from table to table. Women smiled right back like they was fools. A fried chicken breast from Mrs. Edwards, a piece of Lucy Flower's berry cream pie. They was handed up like offerings to the stranger, who had not been invited.
A hot, summer breeze freshened and twirled some discarded paper napkins along the grounds. A few folk looked up to check the sky - unless they could feel him near.
He tipped his black Stetson at Ol Miss Hendricks and knelt to gently bring to rights a little girl all in pink and lace.
The lazy Sunday afternoon shadows crawled across the little church's white clapboards.
Through the swirl of cigar smoke and red-faced men at the corner where the grounds met the graves, he walked and shook hands and drank the clear grain offered - even to the uninvited.
She was packing up her Mother's leftover ham, carefully layering the dark pink slices deep in a woven basket along side pickled beets and the last, thick slice of devil's food.
She watched without blinking as his shadow spilled across the old wide-plank table and covered her hand.
Than the tiniest shudder escaped as she felt his thumb graze down the length of her tender jaw.

©Naomi Marshall 2017