With a little luck, we become
a third person consumed with
plugging holes with acorns—
all sizes, an art perfected
in the fall, each picked ripe
from the tree. Of course,
there’s bickering for the prize,
flapping feathers in the oak—
but come the winter’s wet and cold,
who’s to say who filled the hole
in the post that holds the gate,
that keeps the barn upright?
drycrikjournal 