The Hollow

The October night was dark and cold, As the autumn sun was going down, When I recalled the legends I had been told, About this sleepy, little town. There were tales about the haunted woods, They say the wind seems to call your name, I was going where no one should, And if I survived, I'd never be the same. I walked through the covered bridge, As the harvest moon rose into the sky, I had made it around the darkened ridge, Just as I heard a lone wolf's cry. I walked the path of the dark, gnarled thicket, Through the fallen leaves of maple and oak, I heard the chirping of a cricket, Near the hollow, where the bullfrogs croak. Then, I heard the "hoot" of an owl in a tree, And the "caw" of a raven on it's perch, The headless horseman I hoped not to see, As I passed the graveyard near the church. I told myself I would be alright, Just as I heard the hooves of a horse, But, I knew I would make it home tonight, Because there are no ghosts, of course. August 30th, 2013 (This was my tribute to "The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow" by Washington Irving. I wrote it from the perspective of Ichabod Crane.)