One night each year 
the celebration sounds
like a war zone. Swaths
of four-legged refugees flee
fields filled with ear-splitting
squeals and bright booms. 

To escape, they infiltrate 
the subdivision. 
The young buck panics
stilt-legged down a driveway. 
A frenzied fox pants wild-eyed 
on a landscaped lawn.

Poor fellas. 

One neighbor has the gall to call 
animal control, but God 
bless the USA, they are closed  
for the holiday.