Hay making

Katie Klingsporn

It’s the skunk again.

The pungent odor has wafted up from the backyard, filling the bedroom and my nostrils, rousing me from sleep. It’s the wee hours of the night, dawn just beginning to infuse the sky with violet. A dog barks.

I picture the skunk in the yard, casing out the chicken coop, hungrily watching our birds as they roost peacefully in the henhouse, searching for weaknesses in the perimeter, plotting its murderous raid. I think about what my acupuncturist told me about skunks. That they are the cruelest killers, leaving being gruesome scenes of decapitated hens.

And though the sensible side of me knows the chickens are safe, it’s bye-bye to my night of sleep. For the fourth time in a week, my dreams are robbed by the unpleasant-smelling intruder.

Not that the skunk is the only thing keeping me from sleeping lately. It’s late June, after all…

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