A skunk and her babies make a home beneath my bedroom window. |
Ah, the effrontery of skunks! A mother skunk and her two babies have made their home beneath my bedroom window. Though I am fair-minded, this is frontier disorganization; it is misfit habitation. Animal metal, audacity, airing outright. Yet I am sympathetic to motherhood, albeit rank, a potential time bomb of dire aroma...so why not beetles? or crickets? or turtles? Why this squatting of inevitable other-worldly emanation? What would lead a skunk proximate to my abode? And what, then, would lead me? I am edgy lodger, a chip of life torn between a giving heart and a sensitive nose. I seek counsel from the gods as to why things happen the way they happen. And so I spin like a whirlwind, like an eddy, gallant yet galled--a kick-plate me, a ewe eyeing shepherds narrowly, a kidney stone in the Queen’s royal ureter. Oh, do I dare oust these sudden settlers? Do I purge that life (possessing odor unpleasing), to simply toss around my weight? Perhaps a prayer, a humbling of spirit, a plaintive plea to He on high that piercing wafting does not flee, but will instead be so detained that nostrils rise up not! I wonder if He’ll hear? Or will He smell a rat? 40 Lines Writer’s Cramp 5-15-16 |