The barred owl calls, Who cooks for you?
Who cooks for you all? Along the cobbled
streets now clear of cars, the lamps come on
at dusk. Banks of clouds haunch low on the horizon,
waiting for the soup to boil. Where’s the hail
of locusts, the plague of boils, the black
deaths clustered like walnuts on the branch?
Squirrels forage in the quiet before the storm.
Bead by bead they’ll hide their store
of afflictions, enough to eat through the cold.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.