My geraniums were tore 
all to hell and I suspected
a squirrel was to blame
his bastard paws parting
the soil to pocket a nut
                                                                                I do not mind battle, the excitement
                                                                                 carries one through

The next morning
the squirrel was laid out
just beyond the swiss chard
as if fainted dead away
unmarred, waiting for
someone to palpate his apron
soft and white and covered in flies –
                                                                            I ate but was not satisfied
                                                                            with nuts in their season

No one wanted to fool
with the dead squirrel
in the backyard except
the new world vultures
who were happy
to apply for the job

                                                                         Two kinds live in this garden
                                                                         The dead and us

Then another showed up
in the bare branches of the pink oak
and another and another
willing collectors of carrion
discussing meat disposal

                                                                        Battles are won by slaughter and maneuver,
                                                                        But when your enemies lay before you, rejoice