Peggy Turnbull
Unseen
Help us to understand
that we share the land
with a red fox who trots
on railroad tracks
and turns back
to check for threats,
a thick bottle-brush tail
straight behind him.
We are not alone.
Two white-tailed deer
disappear into a small field.
Their bodies blend
into April’s gold-green grass.
I watch from the viaduct.
Hundreds of vehicles pass
nearby, the drivers unaware
of the wild surprises in the city.
How can they know you
if they only see cement,
chrome, and the stoic faces
of their neighbors?
Peggy Turnbull lives and writes in Manitowoc, Wisconsin, where she was born and where her parents and sisters still live. She is a retired librarian who spent most of her career in West Virginia. Read her work in Rat’s Ass Review, New Verse News, and forthcoming in Snapdragonand Verse-Virtual. She is a member of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets.
Unseen
Help us to understand
that we share the land
with a red fox who trots
on railroad tracks
and turns back
to check for threats,
a thick bottle-brush tail
straight behind him.
We are not alone.
Two white-tailed deer
disappear into a small field.
Their bodies blend
into April’s gold-green grass.
I watch from the viaduct.
Hundreds of vehicles pass
nearby, the drivers unaware
of the wild surprises in the city.
How can they know you
if they only see cement,
chrome, and the stoic faces
of their neighbors?
Peggy Turnbull lives and writes in Manitowoc, Wisconsin, where she was born and where her parents and sisters still live. She is a retired librarian who spent most of her career in West Virginia. Read her work in Rat’s Ass Review, New Verse News, and forthcoming in Snapdragonand Verse-Virtual. She is a member of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets.