Dredging the archives, intermittently contributing to them.
Spraying under the Dogwood
in my backyard, I spot a crow
pecking the soggy, rotten
donut some twenty feet up
where a past owner botched
a pruning job years ago.
Two days in a row I’ve seen this
crow. I unscrew the bottle top
and cock my arm, but trip on
a root popping through my lawn;
the crow’s best friend he never knows
he has because I was a little
league pitcher and I threw strikes.
My temple hits the root and
the bottle empties down my collar,
across my tie and jacket.
Squirrel repellent fills my
nostrils. It consumes me. There is
nothing in my life except squirrel repellant.
I’m surprised to discover how
fond I am of the scent of coyote
urine. I am no squirrel;
I may be a coyote.
I may hunt house cats and
live in blackberry brambles
on the edge of golf courses. I
may trot through the streets
at night and hide behind
parked cars when headlights approach.
I may be trapped in a place
I can’t control, but I’m clever and
I adapt and thrive, like the crow, but
in secret, in the dark. Much more
clever than the crow. My cheeks flush.
my fingers and toes tingle. I wet myself.
I laugh, flop my arms in the grass,
and howl at the morning sun rising.
The crow, he’s still perched
in the dogwood. I can’t see him, but
he's there, watching, and
tomorrow he will peck the rotten bark again.