Tales from the Edge of Town [with a nod to Ella's turkey eggs]
 

newest edit forsakes some of the the easy breezy adjectival iambs that end in Y and seeks concision.

picture of a mother opossum with joeys https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl...Myg6egUIARDSAQ

The Opossum’s Daytime Visit [version 3]

The five eggs lay ruptured among maple leaves crumbling under the holly hedge. I laid down my pruning shears
and stiffly lowered knees to soil still holding winter’s cold to peer into shadows, spiny leaves, and angled twigs
and then to jump when beads of eyes in fur stared back. Lips lifted to bare needle teeth before, with a hiss of rage
or fear, the face pulled away. Then came a rake of mulch and a dawdling crunch of leaves until from the hedge’s
other end, an opossum limped and crawled. One withered leg dragged the neighbor’s missing trap by a broken
chain while on her spine five sets of disturbed riders’ eyes repined from figures no bigger than a child’s cupped
hand. The little joeys bumped along and gripped their mother’s fur after losing their chance at the robin’s clutch
of eggs—so goes the game of life when one foe falls and one still can stand. I picked up my shears and saw back
to many springs to reconcile this likely march of death by six more souls against the promise of those to come.

The Opossum’s Daytime Visit [version 2]

xxxxxThe five newly ruptured eggs lay scattered under lower limbs where the
mulch was thin and shreds of maple leaves still clung, disintegrating and
rotting on the ground still cold with winter leaving. I laid down my pruning
shears and kneeled on old stiff knees before the hollies to find the blame
that could be found, now looking for a nest and guessing at what harm I
might have done. At first, was only shadows, angling branches, held my
gaze. Then through a gap in the thickly bunched and spiny maze, I saw
a gray and furry face with beady eyes set back within the hedge, and jumped—
a face that seemed to stare back at me accumulating hate as it drew
farther back and tautened lips and showed its needle teeth. I heard a hiss
and spits made brave from rage or fear, a clawing rake of leaves and twigs,
a snap of jaws, and then I heard a fading, dawdling trek through crackling
leaves and sliding mulch until from the hedge’s other end, an opossum
limped and crawled, not looking back. It dragged one withered leg in the
neighbor's trap that trailed a broken chain while on her spine five sets of
disturbed riders’ eyes repined from a line of figures hardly bigger than a
child's cupped hands. The little joeys bumped and blinked and gripped their
mother’s fur, a set of five wee souls with thwarted intent to feed on five now
gone. I thought of life, I thought of death—how one thought so quickly slips
away and one so staunchly stands. I picked up my shears. My eyes felt dry,
no guilt, no tears, but empty, as I wondered first, whose soul would soon
replace an old and broken man’s, and next, this weakened mother's soon
to die along with five, and last, what newer six would come.

The Opossum’s Daytime Visit [version 1 edited to clarify that the N did not set the trap]

xxxxxThe five newly ruptured eggs lay scattered under lower limbs where the
mulch was thin and shreds of maple leaves still clung, disintegrating and
rotting on the ground still cold with winter leaving. I laid down my pruning
shears and kneeled on old stiff knees before the hollies to find the blame
that could be found, now looking for a nest and guessing at what harm I
might have done. At first, was only shadows, angling branches, held my
gaze, until through a gap in the thickly bunched and spiny maze, I jumped
at seeing a gray and furry face with beady eyes set back within the hedge,
a face that seemed to stare back at me accumulating hate as it drew
farther back and tautened lips and showed its needle teeth. I heard a hiss
and spits made brave in rage or fear, a clawing rake of leaves and twigs, a
snap of jaws, and then I heard a fading, dawdling trek through crackling
leaves and sliding mulch until from the hedge’s other end, an opossum
limped and crawled, not looking back. It dragged one withered leg in the
neighbor's trap that trailed a broken chain while on her spine five sets of
disturbed riders’ eyes repined from a line of figures smaller than doubled
fingers. The little joeys bumped and blinked and gripped their mother’s fur,
a set of five small souls with thwarted intent to feed on five now gone. I
thought of life, I thought of death—one thought so quickly slips away and
one malingers. I picked up my shears. My eyes felt dry, no guilt, no tears,
but empty, as I wondered first, whose soul would soon replace an old and
broken man’s, and next, this weakened mother's soon to die along with five,
and last, what newer six would come.

Hi Jim,

So cool to see we've both been inspired by nest predation of late. I love opossums but I don't see many poems about them. I knew it was an opossum as soon as I read "accumulating hate;" they always look so grumpy but I guess that's part of their charm. I like how you bracket the story with setting down and then picking up the shears, like "back to business as usual."

This is lovely overall, so here are a few of my suggestions. This sentence is kind of long and could be broken up: "At first, was only shadows, angling branches, held my gaze, until through a gap in the thickly bunched and spiny maze, I jumped at seeing a gray and furry face with beady eyes set back within the hedge, a face that seemed to stare back at me accumulating hate as it drew farther back and tautened lips and showed its needle teeth." I also think that "doubled fingers" is a confusing comparison.

Have a great weekend,

Ella

Hi Ella,

Thanks for the suggestions. I've changed wordings to incorporate them. In the interest of full disclosure this poem is an assemblage of incidents. I had a neighbor once when I lived on a lake who trapped squirrels and nutria, considering them pests. One of his small squirrel traps was carried off and a raccoon was seen and pitied days later dragging it around.

I do have hollies that I prune around my yard and the ones near my bird feeders seem to be a favorite nesting ground for birds as well as a hunting ground for a pair of feral cats that were probably dumped out near here a couple years ago. I found broken eggs there last spring and a couple years before I pruned a large size holly limb and unknowingly spilled a nest's eggs myself.

I've seen several live opossums in my yard before and found a couple dead there over the years. I've yet to see a mother carrying her joeys though. From what I've read the fate of joeys can be anticipated by their length when lost off the mother's back. Under nine inches and they are unlikely to live without rescue help. They actually piggyback up to a year of age. When they are really small they stay inside the mother's pouch. They are the only marsupial outside of Australia, and apparently the term joey for their young has become widespread.

I don't actually live on the edge of town but near several large heavily wooded areas. I find deer tracks in my yard fairly often and hear owls hooting every night. Your turkey eggs were an image that brought some little mini-tragedies back to mind. I put that together with some of David's intimations of morbidity, a lot of health concerns popping up for me, and voila, a poem. Another experiment in prose poetry, I am iamb-ing heavily through this all the way and am wondering how that works. Thanks again for commenting.

Jim,

I really like this account of mom and her joeys, its rich imagery coherent and suggestive from beginning to end. But taking the sentence Kira suggested is too long in the original as an example, I’d say that this is overly modified throughout both versions. I have no argument with modifiers, but other members may differ. I’m still pondering the analogy of the opossums' plight and speaker’s concern at the end.

(I did one about a hedgehog rolling around in fallen apples to carry a load on her spikes to feed her brood, based on Thoreau’s analogy of his own carrying apples in his pockets to maintain balance. It was the first of my many posts with 0 responses!)

This would be better much leaner. It should be told in clearer language and more imagery. I’ve never seen a possum—I’ve never heard anyone refer to them as opossums—regardless of which is specified—build anger. I have them in my yard all the time and they instantly snarl and hiss. Their teeth aren’t the slightest bit philosophical. If you’re interested, Marosa Di Giorgio is very good with these sort of prose poems. “Diadem”is her translated selected. She’ll show you why clear and simple is best, particularly when writing on nature.

Hi Ralph and John,

Reacting to your comments and suggestions I've posted version 3 trying to lose some of the easy breezy iambic modifiers while trying to tighten the message. My N is now more of an observer than a stakeholder in the scene. My other versions were wordy I think in attempts to add sonics of rhymes and iambs to avoid sounding prosaic. I'll keep working on it. I originally was aiming at posting on the metric board and then was lured away by the chance to sound philosophical and the challenge i perceived in making a prose poem, at least to my mind, more poetic. Thanks for your help.