The fuzzy black caterpillar is an eyebrow that has
fallen onto the asphalt and kept moving.
It feels its way toward cover where the mosquitoes reign
and the monarchs twitch and glide overhead.
A sapling oak pulses through the shield
of branches. The knots of oak elders peer down
approvingly. The shelter given is lasting,
a concept that endures despite the campaign of
havoc among the brush. The thunder claps,
and a squirrel moves closer to its hole.
A chipmunk is redirected from its foraging.
The ducks head back to shore. Lightning flickers
like a horrible stage show, and three frogs
jump into a plastic bucket of water.
Later, the grass still wet, a strange dog
defecates in the yard while we are
yelling at it, but it goes about its business unfazed
as we try our best to humiliate it.
Either it is indiscriminate, or it senses
our weakness, knowing we are all part
of the same good meal on
this worm farm of some renown.
