A double-etheree
by Karen O’Leary

lone crooner,
serenades me
from Wolf Hill each night.
People heap blame on him
for lost chickens, dead kittens
plus, other predatory crimes.
I attest that his shadow stays with me
on that hill each shared night two miles away.
We met a year ago on Pine Cone Trail.
He moaned, guarding his mate as her blood
seeped from a hole in her right flank.
I sat, knowing his sorrow.
Inching forward in bits,
our eyes locked in trust.
He laid his head
on my lap,
one in


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