squats on the bank of the
creek, built
by a crayfish, though she’s never seen
him,
only his mound as it slowly grows
and
gets beaten down by the rain
and grows
again.
She crouches by the
carcass of a fox,
its cold pelt
covered in ticks.
Peepers chirp so loudly I
can’t hear her voice
on the other end of the
line
when she passes the bog.
A fat raccoon waddles
along the trail,
and when she returns to
the creek she’s greeted by
a black bear lumbering
through the brush, its coat
blacker than the sky. It
ignores her
and disappears into the
trees and she makes
a dash for the house,
carefully stepping over
the nightcrawlers in the
onion patch
stretched out across the
furrows to silently mate
before they, like her,
slip back into their holes.
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