Scream (Prose)

I scream at the edge of a cranberry bog as ripe as fall harvest; red cascades visibly through early morning mist behind tall cedars and scrub pine.  It is a quiet place when my tension is too tight to tweak with kind gestures and soft sex.

I do not like to yell.  It shows weakness.  So, I am careful not to be followed in the early light.  

The sound of expressway traffic begins in the distance long before sun rises or children board school buses.  I will release when the rest of the world is otherwise occupied and I am truly alone with me.

Breath condenses in early light.  I listen and scream once; so loud that crows mimic my insubordinate howl with startled squawks.  And then, I let my echo melt into the rhythmic sound of cricket chirp and bog peepers.  

Release is fleeting.

My breath, quick within raced heart, beats through darting glances, certain no lights have peered.  It is rush and release; tension and excitement as I trespass on orgasmic ground.  

I thank God, beg a prayer to keep me safe and stumble, stick tripping through dense brush to the hidden dirt road clearly marked "Private Property." In my waiting car, I close off the cool air, and start the world.