The Pet Peeve #3
December rains flood the bird feeders—how
will they eat?—but doesn’t wash the blood off my porch, the carnage scattered from
door to window; tuffs of fur, a chewed-off leg, entrails, a tail. My dear husband
cleaned it up with his shop broom and what all. But what, you ask, does this
have to do with the rain the rain, the rain?
It’s my opinion that if it were snow
falling gently from these iron-gripped skies to pile up in fluffy banks around
the porch, drifts swirling and forming barriers along the drive, then
perhaps these nocturnal creatures, whatever they are, would eat their dinner in
their riverbank burrows, cubbyholes, and woody enclaves, (I want no Invitation to the Party!) instead of spreading it
across my front porch for the UPS and Fed Ex guys to look at askance, as at the
scene of a murder, checking the soles of their boots before climbing back in
their trucks.
So, call it what you want: global
warming, climate change, or normal fluctuations in weather patterns, I want my
winters back. I want the cardinals and the juncos to flit among snow-laden
boughs instead of flapping their wings like ducks in the newly formed ponds where
there was once a yard. And I don't want dead things on my doorstep.
For Poets and Storytellers and their Seasonal Writings, asking us to include the title of a book we're reading this December in a piece of poetry or prose. An Invitation to The Party was a perfect fit!