Thursday, February 22, 2018

Night Life

Awake, then listening, every cell alert  . . . the owl
informing me in bursts . . . Hoo hoo hooooo.
Like a foghorn . . . warning. Night. Not still. Not dark.
A racket of foxes breaks out,
ricocheting yips like go-cart backfires,
frail trebles, tawny peach-fuzz muzzles
vainly nosing this way that way to draw
the missing vixen back to the rock-veiled den —
local rodents nourish this rare earth,
suburban survivors. We light poles & bulldoze
hunting grounds, water holes, & joyride
numbered highways, bound for coin & fame . . .
too often soiling the highway, feeling flesh
thud between our wheels like trash.

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