Sonnet #41

We do not know the ecosystems at our door

We only know the story that we see, there

Suburbia, a nice, safe place, clean yards, fear

exists here, though. The ants, the cats, the gore

of the hunt: We live in a forest, we just decide 

the trees and shrubs that pull the creatures to us

Our lost pets go wild, our poisons clear wide

swathes of niches ripe for colonization, abide

all you want picking at inches tall of grass

By night, the cats will hunt, the rats will run

The ants will build their fortresses in loosened soil

The birds pass through, the squirrels, possums,

coyotes, deer, all the marginal things will toil

Another meal from sidewalks. They come.