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, who’s stealing seed for birds. Surely the oak is enough.
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
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