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In the backyard, in the garden, there are bleeding hearts and primrose. The air is thick with the smell of white gardenia

At night you can see the flowers, the outside lights have motion sensors; in spring, you can hear the foxes cry. 

Through the window I see my father sitting in the den. He shakes his head at something in the paper.

Dinner will be late, coming home I took the long way. Just beyond the garden I can hear the foxes cry. 

In spring the foxes cry, it’s a mating call, I’m told. It could mean many things, but not too many. 

Fiestaware, forks and knives, silence like formaldehyde, my father asks again why dinner’s late.

Coming home I took the long way, outside the foxes cry; the tiny hairs in a fox’s ear act as motion sensors.

Nothing in the garden takes the darkness from our table, and we eat things that understand each other.

 

 

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