That Is the Hanging Tree

Old timers in a dark tavern were telling tales I was the eavesdropper, and none seemed to know Where exactly is the hanging tree? One asked. I was horrified, but not enough to quit listening. An address was given, so I headed out there on foot. The house was simple, but every light was lit. Odd for this time of the evening. A crow watched me. Was he listening to my footsteps? They slapped against the walk. Looks like rain a grizzled cowboy type said. I nearly jumped out of my shoes. He laughed. Gave me a nod and tipped his hat. I was too shocked to smile. I had not heard him creep on me. Silent footsteps; how often do you not hear that? It was an odd evening; Halloween-like and not Halloween yet. I turned to say, “I didn’t even hear you!” But he was gone. I looked in every direction. “That is the hanging tree,” a man’s voice whispered. I looked past the house and knew this was the hanging tree. The crow gave me a sharp-eyed look and flew off. I felt like he had been an ethereal visitor.