I only knew the bat was there
by the dung on the ground.
The borer bees spill wood
dust over the trash cans.
There are branches to clear
before mowing, the sky
bluing where the storm
must have loitered,
shoulders hunched,
leaning into the red maples.
Shredded emerald leaves
float in the pool.
The yard’s shirt is untucked,
its pants rucked and laces untied.
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