Quivered in grass, some subtle sign flashes and squirrels course through my yard, suburban blood in circulation or a song sung sotto voce. Generations of a brood in sly disguise, or maybe the same gray squirrel who glides below the wires. . . .
At night behind a flimsy plastic window shade we watched as a stump slathered with bacon grease lured foxes in. From the truck, we swept fields with spotlights looking for deer. I learned to see
Menu 
