Holly Brantley


“You are more afraid of them

than they are

of you.”


My eyes glazed over

green fields

with large brown specks

dotting the surface.


The mountainous creatures 

cried out against the rumble

of the machine herding them.


A crazy old man

with nothing else

but his bison and red golf cart and

a promised feature

in the newspaper.


“The secret is,”

my father said,

“that you don’t

let them know.”


He held out his hand for me.

“You let them guess.”