the squirrels always get the first fruits
and the last ones.
if we want fresh pawpaws,
we must eat them unripe
while the mockingbirds are still trying on their calls
in the still-cool afternoons of southern summer.
we curse the fuzzy creatures—
buck-toothed greedy rats;
we come after them with traps
baited with store-bought apples,
yet they persist. they twist
into their trees and gleefully sup
on the sweet spoils of summer
while we bitterly gnaw on grocery store pears.
tonight as always they will gather around their cedar table,
bow their fuzzy little heads, and chatter in unison
a thanks to the Lord of the Harvest
for the blessings before them,
and we will forget to pray,
caught up in conspiring against the wide-eyed rodents.