issue 23 > poetry > teeter

Here on this mountain the sounds are strange –
the snuffling rustling of small creatures
in the leaves, the call of owls first here
then far away, flying a wide range,
the crunches of something bigger,
the rattle of the garbage cans.

These nights you wonder
how your mother fares.
Is she still putting sugar water
out for hummingbirds?
Is she still in the habit
of feeding bears?