Even the Bull Laughs

Squirrel in the dead leaves
Searches with frantic purpose;
Digs for God knows what.

Only one dead leaf
On top of rhododendron;
Comes from some place else.

This balmy Sunday
At the end of November;
Even the bull laughs.

Smell of fresh baking
Drifts slowly across the road;
Kisses my nostrils.

Popping of rifles
Breaking through the soft warm air
Like armed intruders.

Suspended from gate
Faded ornaments hang on.
They know no season.

Incessant shooting;
Big old boys with louder guns.
Some things never change.



Windows in window,
Facing in and facing out;
With no one inside.