Poetry, Writing

El Chupacabra

The hoof beats echo off the dusty trail
	fine powder churned up as they go


A thousand goats stampeding
	bleating in the night
		woe is the living creature in their path


Facing the uncertain
	we push on through pre-dawn mist
		the dew is like soft wet kisses on my legs as we run


It’s out there somewhere
	stealthy, waiting
			like looking for a needle in a haystack
								we search on

Finding it 
		will be easy enough

Compared to killing a monster
					that doesn’t exist

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