Fallen timber rests.
Like orange pumpkins on dried vines
or dipped, headless chickens,
it does not wait, but simply is
home to impatient squatters
who will turn it rotten
like mushy squash
if I wait too long before
jerking the worn rope
on my rusting chainsaw.
"Are you still having trouble with those chickens?" says Virginia.
"Maybe," I say. "I don't think so."
"Well, get used to it, or stop eating meat," she says.
The Bowman Women; A Work In Progress
1 week ago