There is a measure of ownership
in turning over the things in the yard
that haven’t been turned over in years
And an amount of I-told-you-so
in finding, underneath one of those
somethings, a baby copperhead,
more venomous, I’m told, than her mother.
And loads of not-on-my-watch
when the shovel hacks the creature
to pieces as it tries to make
silent escape, through the grass.