Poetrymann

They think we live like hoarders she said, shucking the brown silk from the husks and watching it join the pile under the cat's twitching tail. The neighbors know about us - what is on our back porch and on the clothesline stretched between the elm trees. I have watched them count our sheets hung out like parts of speech and turn their heads like they know how the mattress spits us out onto the floor at night. They stare at the screen door, opening it in their heads, losing their timid fingers in years of soap powder and instant milk, in yards of empty envelopes and cotton batting. I find them looking at us from across the yard wondering why the brooms grow children in the corner and our arms are always full, carrying discontent through the door. But they never speak. Their eyes only grow larger and flash, while they punch their fists into their pockets and chew the early morning light.

I like the valley best in spring maybe it's the crocus taking wing against the dawn or the Queen Anne's lace holding court among the rocks. You prefer autumn because maize and ochre set the lake on fire and the hawthorn and crimson creeper burst berries on the vines.