BRUSH PILE

 

 

Hunting in the rain,
the hawk is back
hungry for quail

tittering in the bottom
of the brush pile,
casualties and prunings

I would have burned
but for last year’s lake
of constant rain.

Summer outpost
for ground squirrels
that robbed the garden,

a lair for thieves
packing peaches, pears,
apples off

to feast in peace—
battle lost,
the spoils of war

we’ll never win, but wage
with fire when the grass
turns green again.

 

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