Morning Shots

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.


About grannysu

storyteller, writer, poet, gardener, countrywoman
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