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.

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Susan Miller
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.