Over the river wall
they came through
spaces between stones
raised to give the yard

an end. Stealing up
through a jungle
of might-come-in-useful
planks and old boards

galvanized sheets and
rotting doors, trees of refuge
to hide behind
and scurry in and out of.

Quiet visitors until
the snap and flesh welded
to steel melts red
and the tight walls

of our closed yard
toss and throw the cries
of their heart-thumping
squeals to a boy who knew

that life must end
in his own backyard
as sure as the blunt axe
falling on the blank ground -

that apple-crunching
sound and the shovel used
to hearse them back
was left outside for days.

No visitors come
where I live now,
no river passes by, no traps
spring late at night

and I don't have to hear
their cries. We only meet
now on the open road
and I swerve to let them by.