Most days you feel pretty good 

about your place in the world, 

a rolling caravan of efficiency: 

from market to post office to bank, 

time even for a vanilla latte. 

The nights you jolt from sleep 

to the rumble of unknown beast and prey 

make you question that place.

All lights on is your defence, but the low 

deep growl unnerves you.

And the cat has no need to theorize; 

she knows the sound of trouble— 

her tail electrified— 

knows the squealing creature 

outside your door won’t get away. 

You move in a semi-daze the next morning, 

startled by the body of a small rabbit 

near the mailbox, fox picking nonchalantly

through remains. The fox doesn’t mind 

your approach, leaves when he’s full, 

disappears through the neighbours’ pines. 

You spend the day inside, watching

how fast the news travels— 

bold crow, then turkey vulture. 

By dinnertime, the lawn picked clean. 

Over the phone, city friends misremember 

the name of your small town as Eden, 

where all things begin and end, 

rules of the hierarchy 

posted plain as day.

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Jennifer Campbell is a writing professor in Buffalo, NY, and was a longtime co-editor of Earth’s Daughters. She has two full-length poetry collections and a chapbook of reconstituted fairytale poems titled What Came First (Dancing Girl Press, 2021). Jennifer’s work has recently appeared in The Healing Muse, Trajectory, and Freshwater.