Behind our back, ground squirrels
crawling on their bellies raid
the peach tree, an Elberta with huge
fruit starting to color that bob
and bounce across the pasture,
bigger than the heads that run
with them gripped in yellow teeth.
Come evening, a flutter of black
feathers, our resident pair of crows
dining at the fence line on scattered
cadavers, fuzzy lumps awaiting
buzzards for breakfast.
Everyone trying to make a living,
nothing goes to waste,
not even peaches.
– for Mas Masumoto