Horror Farm

out by the tree line

of Loblolly pines

fifty feet from our

front door

where the Great

Horned Owl pair

chats across the

pine branches

at 5 a.m.

Ollie and Fitz

stopped in their tracks

to smell the rotting leaves.

They looked like charcoal,

only fuzzy. More like a

squirrel tail torn to shreds.

Or a rabbit.

I had just told my children

about rabbit, rabbit earlier

on the first day of June.

Was this a harbinger of

death for this poor

creature gone except

for its fur?

This farm holds mysteries

that will never yield answers.

It’s been the Johnson

Funny Farm since 1971

when three farmhands

saw a trio of cross-eyed pigs

but it’s not all funny here.

Sometimes there is

a twinge of horror against

all the laughter and tears.