The Hedge

The hedge is yaupon, twice your height, hung with the red berries it gets in November. A line of candy corn is laid along the foot of it, one kernel at a time, from the gate toward the end of the row. The fire ants are taking it from the far end, and four kernels are left between them and the gate.

The plaque on the gate says OAKWOOD and hangs from one screw. A child in a pointed hat goes in under it and does not look back.

A firefly goes ahead of you along the foot of the hedge, lit for a second, dark for four, a yard farther each time. It keeps on while you stop to look at the berries.

Through a gap in the leaves, in a clearing, three ghosts. Bedsheets, the eyeholes cut uneven, hanging at three different heights. Each time the firefly lights, all three lean toward it. Each time it goes dark, they hang straight again.