Ophisaurus ventralis
 
 
she finds warmth
beneath the compost pile
we surprise each other
our exhausted greetings
my yelp, her defensive posture
we forget and forget
carry on this limited conversation
year after year
 
I grow limited and defensive
at her persistent lingering
become disoriented wondering
which of us will go first
 
[RK, 10/30/22]
 
 
Half-Moon
 

That half-moon is the last thing I expected.
Garden soil puckered by fainting fair raindrops.
Where are morning’s crows and jays
shirruping their greedy breakfast orders
to the sous chef who leaves seeds scattered on top of a wall?
 
Watching the crows in disorderly order feinting the way to the roost.
“You’ll never find us,” they say.
“I’m not looking.” I’m looking. “Just momentarily dazed with wondering
when you imply here today, gone tomorrow.”
 
I used to lay out traps for the prairie dogs, now I know better.
The crows, a global avian multitude stealing my grain,
even as I rush to get everything finished
before the zenith half-moon, and night.
 
[RK, 10/30/22]