by Jim Farfaglia
The potted plants are being attacked;
their soil suffering wound holes,
their dirt strewn ‘round the porch –
someone’s using them for storage.
The local groundhog drags a belly
grown full from his foraging,
making once last trip through my yard –
using himself for storage.
The deer show themselves less,
gunshots echoing their warning,
moving them deeper into the forest –
deeper into the dark
as a cricket fills the night air,
offering a song he’s practiced all season,
working on his finale –
ushering in the coming silence.