Randolph Poem by Morgan Michaels

That night as Old Man McCoy fled through the woods, the trees in his path refused to budge. Their branches batted him like hands and smacked him in the face and chest and groin. Behind him the screams of his wife slowed his pace, as did the agonized pleas of his sons. Tears streamed down his face. But the gunshots urged him on faster, toward help, justice, he wasn't sure what. Over his shoulder he saw whorls of whitish smoke against the dark, and a corner of the sky lit up orange from the torched cabin. He'd known something awful was going to happen when he woke up, this morning. Lying in bed last night he'd heard two wildcats fighting. All day long it was too quiet. Then, catastrophe-fire and hot lead. After mid-night the trees turned to men and crowded in. As he ran the twigs snapped underfoot and he ran until the lights of the town came in view and he remembered it was New Year's. There would still be a few revellers at the tavern. He would round them up and return to what was left of the cabin. Nothing could persuade him not to. His poor wife! He was so ashamed. But, alive. Alive to make them pay. Alive to get revenge! So he ran on toward the light.