I contemplate how to rid
the garden of the chipmunk
that lives in the compost bin.
Rabbits burrow behind
the hostas, eat the pole beans
through the bird netting.  I offer
treats to the neighbor’s cat,
entice her to hunt.  I fill any hole
with dirt and gravel, tamped with my foot.
At least the strawberries are safe:  hardware cloth
domes over their raised beds.  But the blueberries
are stripped from their bush at the first blush
of color.  The peaches are stolen the morning
before the first picking.  The chipmunk
mocks from the shadows, twitchy and fat.