Maryjane stared at photos perched on her counter. The dynasty would last
forever. The babies now, were great-grands. They’d carry on for decades; or
until growing became legal. Then, who knew. Maryjane sighed …
The newcomers had to be run off. They’d driven through smoke from
burning stalks and no death could be attributed. The dead squirrel laid out hadn’t
scared them off — neither had firing guns in their direction. Nor fireworks, or
It would be stealing their comfort. With a different ploy. The pilots
were busy. They helped safeguard; helped watch.
It was just a matter of time …
© 2019, Susan Miller. All rights reserved.
- Clinging to the yesterdays, I sit, old now, and tired. But still riding my horse … looking not young and lithe, but more a sack of potatoes being toted faithfully by a horse almost sour in his work. Yet … we keep going. He, walking and grabbing weeds. Me, pretending I’m still young and strong. I dream. I long. And I tell the story of my life through fiction and the occasional poem.