Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Besmilr Brigham—Issue 49, January 2015)

We Will Not Burn our Trash-brush Piles this Year

rabbits live under them, snakes


a haven of rats, field rodents, fuzz-

creatures—insect webs

unravel deep in new growth about the discarded


quail run beneath on sight-closed

pathways, a young tree

sprouts shooting up from under mould-

sogged boards

in fingers of brilliance

the earth

weaves in the light

it is an eye sore to those not accustomed

to orderliness

(the quail

crosses the road, watchful

one scurries from premeditated danger)

they wait, another

race like shuttle needles

in the grass

a long thin snake

string of purple ribbon, this runner

was caught yesterday by a car—

we lay it dead in the weeds . . .

rabbits roll in the yard

happy fur clowns

we find their hide places

 out from our steps

from secret shutters, they rage

against our intrusion— a field mouse nest

built high among needles of a young pine: ground-babies

the grass children!

how with aggressive eyes they know

our ways