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.
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