By: JD DeHart

Our walks began at the old house
later burned by my uncles, and location
of the rust-reddened refrigerator that trapped
my oldest brother, nearly killing him.
Then our feet would continue past the tin sheet
that covered the old dog’s unseen grave
then to the place with swinging grapevines.
In my early years I walked behind my father –
as my legs grew stronger, we reversed.
After the vines, we headed into thicker woods
where once sturdy houses became rubble,
just a pile of stones and family names.
Around we would go, knowing the trails,
occasionally seeing snake or mutt
or being stung by rogue bee swarms,
legs moving in instinctual succession
forming the bones of stories in my mind.