“I am just an animal looking for a home”
–David Byrne
My neighbor tells me her plum trees have black knot,
and rabbits are everywhere –
petite, non-native
Eastern Cottontails.
One stood stock still
in the alley yesterday,
between the recycle bin
and bags of fertilizer. I walked past
while it imitated a statue of itself.
§
Reports of discordant life
come to me
from friends in other states
– a bald eagle spotted in Riverside Park,
snowy owl standing
in the outfield.
§
Last week I discovered the still-bloody carcass
of a rabbit
splayed out on blue stones in the backyard.
Its skeleton in mid-run, femur, and fibula
in perfect repose
behind the missing torso – save for a rib or two.
I wondered about the hunter –
Coyote? Cat? Crows?
How the drama played out
mere steps
from the steady
safety of sleep.
Later I found tufts of downy pelt
clinging to a rose bush.
§
It’s all there: the coming and going,
the making and unmaking of home;
Peregrines nesting on the roof
of a downtown bank, the red fox
in Gramercy Park, a dark stain of blood
seeping into soil.
