Cold Turkey

The rain has blackened all the tree trunks, but a white face is painted on a young oak.

I almost missed it staring back at me from the wood line. Two eyes, an exaggerated nose, an idiot's toothy grin, they all follow me as I turn against the wind. I cup the Winston, and calm sanity warms my throat as I squint against wisps of rolled North Carolina gold.

It isn't really a face, I reckon. It's lichen, or moss, or some other forest growth that's had its way with the bark of some wild tree.

I lean against the wet railing of my deck. The air is thick, but cool. Soon, the sun will turn wet grass into the floor of a sauna, but for now, everything is perfectly comfortable, maybe even a little chilled.

Maybe it's just the face dropping my temperature a little.

I refuse to make eye contact. It's silly, I know, because it isn't really a face and there are no eyes. I can't shake my odd feeling about it, though. It reminds me of one of those moths that intentionally draws the eye away from important bits.

So where should I be looking, if the face is a decoy?

I chuckle, shaking my head. This place is playing tricks on me.

I drape one leg over the banister and straddle it. I don't have any patio furniture yet. It's pretty low on the priority list, since I'm still living out of cardboard boxes in the new house.

I'll go poke around the tree line when I finish this Winston.

What's the worst that could happen?