before the berries,
the sharply pointed leaves —
holly trees in fall

I watch the fox
until only its ears show
two points in the grass

electrical fence —
no one seems to be reading
my warning sign

foreboding

Batsto Lake

on an oddly warm fall day —

not a bird in sight

going to sleep
knowing that it will be dread
that awakens me

wired and tired —
we all compare notes on
how we'll get through it

we carry bath water
out to our ironwood tree —
seven weeks of drought

rain for a minute —
around us the sound of trees
getting their hopes up

deeper every day —
our Jack-o-Lantern sinks
back into the earth