Neighbors
Michael and Leslie put off building the play fort
in the southeast corner of their land
until the killdeer eggs hatched
and the chicks sprang up and sprinted across the field,
their mother lagging behind crying
and feigning a broken wing.
A bear got into the orchard,
tore limbs off the apple tree,
then clawed at the hen coop’s doorframe
and terrified the layers,
who wouldn’t speak until
Michael smoothed their feathers,
and broadcast feed
to urge them down the ramp.
One night, within half an hour,
a camera on a tree by the pond
recorded a cougar, bear, bobcat,
two deer, and a skunk parading by
on their way to drink,
eyes glassy from the flash.
At the end of a long workday,
Michael and Leslie lie fast asleep,
while a flock of wild turkeys
crowds the back porch,
and the sound of freeway traffic
breaks over like waves rushing to shore.
breaks over like waves rushing to shore.
Vincent Wixon’s new book of poems is Laying By, published by Flowstone Press (https://leftfork.org/
