"Why not a stuffed hound dog that could
someday maybe howl?"
She mumbles the occasional half-conscious questions.
This is the last month, Doctor Vertigo has informed us.
And back beneath the forest floor, a brother fox
nestles silver and orange sibling kits in the burrow.
Perhaps, months from tonight, he will realize
some are just born too late in the year.
To her question, this is all I know, so
I tell her: Because the most round pumpkins
are grown on the moon, and the littlest flowers
drip naked in the rain, tempting the bees to flee
the hive like floating jolly yellow hobos and make honeycomb only for you. By
now her right eye is drawn, a closed white curtain to the dizzy-dizzy moon, and
her left is following suit.
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