RESIDENTS
More than hands can grasp or minds
undress completely, there is no religion –
no one-god-for-sale for everyone, yet
a tree frog lives in the dark overflow
of the new bathroom basin, perches
on its ceramic edge when the faucet runs,
then leaps to the higher ground
of towels draped loosely in the corner
to watch me brush my teeth. Sometimes
he explores beyond the door looking
for someone, but quick to retreat
to the sink, his home. Even the smallest
have dominion woven with man’s – and we
each bear the weight of the sky like ants
in a world without coincidence. The Red Tail
greets the 4-wheel drive with a low glide,
recognizes hay truck from the rare hunter’s
loud gunshots and the flutter of crippled quail.