Two shots, quick cracks that ricocheted from the dewy hills
soft with morning’s first light
a murmur of voices from the neighbor’s house
beyond the treeline, beyond the road, beyond hearing
except for a musical rise and fall almost drowned out
by the purring cat on my lap.
I sip my tea and consider: was it a marauding possum
raiding trash cans in search of breakfast?
Or a copperhead, coiled on warm concrete steps,
surprising Rick who perhaps stepped outside with his coffee
to view the day’s dawning?
A coyote is doubtful at this time of day, preferring the cover of night
for his dirty deeds.
The voices quiet; the cat continues to purr.
My cup is empty;
the sun sends tentative beams
through trees beginning to show a tinge of autumn.
I go inside to begin my work, the
morning’s mystery buried in the rush of another country day.