A Treeless Valley

High above him, several circling hawks
Wings and tails spread, issuing their shrill cries
Slow swirl, their aerial song and dance, perhaps in warning
Having hardly a good feeling concerning his surroundings
A treeless valley of drought dead brown fields and mud
Apprehensively, the traveler forded muddy river water
The fog slowly drifting down from higher elevations

Turning his mount, he looked back at the distant wooded ridges
Awash in autumn colors, faintly calling him back
Fire orange and yellow, splashes of crimson red
Days of wet weather in those mountains
With each Autumn, death drawing more close
Distant mountain forest preparing for a long winter sleep
The falling leaves bidding all a long goodnight

Meager harvest festival in a season of scant yield
The unwelcome gift of rotting fruit on too many tables
A final hatch of small black flies, reveling in such rot
Men of the fields cursing wet weather come too late
Emaciated women and their cold hungry eyes
Was that a necklace of human teeth around her boney neck ?
The traveler had hoped to buy some grain, dried meat, and a apple

The local lord was just finishing his daily rounds
Personal lackeys, glory singers and bootlickers
Borne upon a litter, his feet never touching the muddy ground
Swift symbolic appearances and bleating applause
Enforcers of the law running about like sheepdogs
Keeping the flock together and trespassers in check
Contained, controlled in a time of bad harvest

Could much needed provisions be worth the trouble ?
The scent of death hung over this treeless valley
Scant harvest, lean times and fresh meat
Slowly riding into their near empty bellies
To slaughter, butcher and hang in a smokehouse
In their hollow eyes a terrible hunger
Seeing those eyes, the traveler shuddered

Not yet hungry enough to eat their own kind
They smacked their lips at the thought of fresh game
Three bad harvest seasons had depleted their flock
Bread was worth so much more than gold
Those wooded ridges seemed so distant
In this treeless valley of cannibals

Mud brick buildings and rotting straw hovels
Gaunt men with axes hauling in firewood
He chillingly recalled tales of missing travelers
While sprinting back to where his horse grazed upon wilted stalks
And cursing his fondness of apples with each hard breath
The whole lot of them hard on his heels
He leaped into the saddle just in the nick of time

Hooves splintering bones and gnashing teeth
He rode down a few of them on his way out
Behind him, their deafening wails of disappointment
Grisly piles of bones just outside their town
Missing travelers and unlucky lottery losers
Drought stricken dead brown fields
They would of eaten him and his horse

At full gallop, he sped away across the valley
Almost meeting his doom while fording the river
More woodcutters returning from the tree line
Saber hewing off the hand wielding an axe
Lops off the head of one attempting to bar his way
Stew meat as they will eat their own
Gnarl foul flesh right off the bone

Up and away on the woodcutter’s trail
Dismounting, he led his mount over rugged ground
The valley of cannibals, now shrouded in fog
Traveler and horse resting safely upon the ridge
Cool, moist, the autumn wind was refreshing
Somewhere to the west lay Cappadocia
Wine, mead, grain and perhaps a good apple