I spent a portion of the morning in nearly 100-degree heat,
Digging in clay soil to bury a possum that could no longer compete
With the wise old cow-dog that had alerted me in the night.  

From curious crescendo to a deafening din which could not be ignored,
I looked where her nose pointed, moved things out of the way,
But my cow dog rushed in for first dibs, which was fine, I guess,
since I was barefooted and in my nightgown, though I managed to grab a shovel.  

In the place where I had buried other predators, this one’s ancestors perhaps,
A sprawling garden now grew, with squash leaves more than two feet across.
So large, I could barely find space to step without placing my foot on something.
I know it will be tough come harvest time, since I can’t see when the stuff is ready.  

But for now, I must find one more burial spot, before the sun gets higher.
Perhaps in the corner by the day lilies, or maybe by the garden gate.
For sure, nothing helps boost the soil than planting a few bodies in it.  

I said this to a friend today, and she responded point blank,
“You are like a pioneer woman. I think you arrived in the wrong century.”