They took the animals
out with a noose—
a mother and her two
babies. We heard them
first two weeks ago,
scrabbling atop
the shingled roof.
They made their way
through the rotted
floorboards of the shed,
where they made paper
shavings out of old
magazines we’d stacked
in boxes. In the early
hours, from the kitchen
window, I’ve seen crows
come to the branches
of the sycamore.
A mole burrows across
the property line, and
the nearby crop
of dandelions gets
sidewinded. Out
one day plotting
where we might set
a rain-collecting barrel
and a pebble walk, we sense
eyes looking us over
from the leafy underbelly
of the hedges.

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