Autumnal colors set the scene, the mood, the atmosphere.

Vistas of green turn to hues of yellows, oranges, and reds.

The changing of the seasons draws us to the hunt; cruising

Between verdant mountains, our every sense comes alive

When we stop to capture the perfect photos for framing.

Landscapes in patchworks everywhere attract our eyes,

Impressions imprinted in our minds for pleasant memories.

The smells of fresh air, trees, ripe apples and wildflowers, 

The music of nature’s creatures pecking, squawking, tweeting,

Growing silent as we pass, then taking up their tunes again.

Ever watchful on our annual autumn forays into the hills, 

We’re aware our hunt comes with anticipation, trepidation. 

This witching time of year summons ghosts and ghouls.

Bigfoot and teratorns, beasts and monsters, too, emerge.

We stay alert, hoping to see one—at a distance, of course.

Unlike Uncle Ted last year, who took off into the woods

Having seen something no one else did. Terrified yells

Told us he’d found whatever it was. Or it found him.

Bloody leaves, torn scraps of clothes, his false teeth

Grinning from the ground, all that remained of Tío Ted.

Too many tourists and locals alike vanish in the fall

From our mountains, our valleys, our alleys, and lakes.

Llorona takes her share, Lechuza, the shape-shifter, too.

Malorga, the child-eater, and Vivorón, the giant snake,

Fill their bellies and retreat, a yearly satisfied feeding.

Every autumn, the hunt controls the human population

Here, in the mystical, magical Land of Enchantment. 

We defy death for the views of fall foliage, anyway.

Knowing the weak or the reckless must be sacrificed

For the rest of us to live amongst the hungry hunters.