The Thwack

The sound cut clean

through the quiet,

a sudden, sharp thwack

that made me flinch.

The neighbor’s door.

For a second,

the air was thick

with dust, honeysuckle,

a memory of something

long gone dry.

Then, just the chill

of autumn,

the damp earth smell

of wet leaves.

I looked at their door.

A tiny tear in the mesh,

a small, dark eye

peering out.

A dog’s claw, maybe,

from years before.

Something broken,

left to be.