Earth's Mouth

The sky turned bruised, green-black

over the back field. My phone

shrieked a warning, a mechanical crack

in the air. The wind, a low moan.

Down we went, toward the rusted latch.

Each step on old wood, a protest, deep.

Already, the damp earth smell, a patch

of something buried, trying to creep

into the light. Cold concrete floor,

a bare bulb swinging. A breath held,

a prayer not quite spoken. At the door,

the sound of weather, wild and felled.

We sit and wait. The house above us groans.

I count the cracks, the small dirt pile.

This hollow place, where silence owns

the minutes. Just for a while.