Only Outsiders Knock

Nobody knocks where I’m from.

Especially family and close friends.

Locals announce themselves a dozen quieter ways.

A truck easing up the gravel instead of barreling in.

Bootsteps you know by weigh

t alone on the porch boards.

A shadow crossing the window you’ve looked out of since childhood.

A cough, a whistle, a “hey y’all,” or a low “you home?” meant to keep the dog from kicking up a fuss.

A "woohoo" at the back screen door.

Sometimes even familiar singing — the same tune every time — drifting up the walkway.

Knocks are for strangers.

For folks who don’t know how sound carries in a hollow or across a mountain.

For people who never learned you don’t touch another person’s door unless you’re invited — or desperate.

So when a fist hits the wood after dark?

Every head in the house lifts.

And somebody’s already got a rifle or a baseball bat within arm’s reach.