In the well-manicured suburban lawn,
one vulture feeds on a squirrel’s remains,
while another perches on the chimney,
its mottled black wings outspread to the sun
as if Christ the Redeemer in Rio.
Last night I could hear coyotes yip and sing
their tangled way along Gilliland creek
which runs through the green belt behind the house.
For days now the north wind has whipped the trees
against the sky, branch rattling on bare branch.
I cannot sleep. The weather makes me tense.
A bland vision of an apocalypse,
I know. Our determined whimper deserves,
despite our frailty, so much more than this.
(April 20, 2025)
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