the yard

I'm hiding myself in the vines of ivy, tight against the wall, with the spiders that live in it all going over me. My breath keeps catching and releasing, like a latch when the wind goes awry.

The instructions had been either wrongly sent or received; there was some snarl in understanding that sent men from a rental watch unit in shined shoes and matching hats after me, slipping a little in the slick misted grass. They had me in heavy hand-held light that was supposed to help them see me, but really just let me see where I could turn off suddenly and lose them.

It's in the yard of someone official that I'm weaved into this ivy.

By the morning, the search will be called off. A bust. The men will switch shifts, go home and soothe their muscles in Epsom.

I'll have bites all over me, countless unnamed kinds and sizes.

This official person—you'd not recognize his name, but his acts you would, brutal or heroic depending on your bent—will come out of the door of his house without a shirt on. He'll look out on his yard and the pool not far off. He'll see it floating in there and turn to go inside.

They'll know it was me.