six inches of snow and near the end of November
across the road from my garden the transgenic corn still stands
its sodden and lodging, heads dropping, kernels covered in muddy snow
the odd shotgun blast but no pheasants alight, no disgruntled crows
deer are feeding elsewhere
what of it? who cares? let it rot or sprout come spring
the crows are feasting on the slim pickings on the surface of my compost
squawking and scratching for the buried scraps
and I want to know: where are the deer?
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