Their chortles come to me at night, through my window.
Telling me of the way forward. What needs to be done.
Honing signals of the State of the Union.
The plan has become clear.
Greater then the sum of our individual parts, a pack.
Two cats, one black, one tabby. Alerted by a soft meow of communication. Busted by a primate’s flashlight, but quickly fled into the night.
Sunday. There was a beagle, or some other especially nasally bread, assaulting the world with its cries of outrage and injury. It was impossible to ignore, as I handled the planting of the elderberries cane.
My hands grew cold, and the mud caked on like chilled frosting. Winter won’t get out of the bed.
I said fuck it, tried to find them in the truck. Lure them to me with whistles, and doggy-os.
I hear and see him later as I build the frame to the greenhouse, running like a bullet on a mound to the south-east. His screams had lost their potency. There was only one of them now.
We go on in the blood, the spit and the semen, until we don’t. And then they can build us into mounds, and then dirt. And then it starts again, world without end, amen.