The morning my father died, sixty years of muskrats past crept into their rusted traps and chewed their legs back on. I remember this because that same day all the chicken coops in town burned down under the watchful eyes of Charlie Mole.
It was a great wonder to behold– flaming plywood grottos and the sounds of yelping vermin filling the air as Charlie stood stiff as a post, nose turned to the wind, ears at attention.
Come the morning, smoldering embers lay scattered in an egg crematorium beckoning chicken hawks arched like wandering boomerangs to meal on the memory of the year when the muskrats began to reappear.
Umbriate Press Poetry 