At night, I can hear her nails running along the picket fence.
Morning intrudes, and bones and bits of fur litter the backlot.
The fairies don’t come to the ring anymore and the songbirds
have abandoned the feeders. Summer heat covers the city,
but I know better than to open my window, let in a gasp
of cool evening air. Of late, it hunts more frequently. Caterwauls
more often. I stay inside, part and peer the curtains.
Watch, wait. Never sure what the next morning will deliver.
What remains of the remains.
