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Rascals



What if the finches drop straight down through
the branches like perky, agile acrobats?
Such cat burglars.

What if that duet of invasive squirrels stop
when they spot me watching them trying to move in, and
run back

into their hiding place behind the folding screen
on the porch where my daughter’s photograph is plastered

larger than life and she’s wearing the christening gown
that we all wore. Five generations of holy water.
What if the sound

in the night of a stainless steel
serving tray tumbling to the cement wakes us?

We will know that the rascals are at it again
tipping to raid the seed bin, and the birds will need to make
more noise to hold on to their sky climbing stick country.

The tree’s arms scratching the roof for as long
as I can remember. My daughter frightened by the sound
in her bedroom as the natural movement carves the dark.

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