By Chryss Yost

Like most of our kind, we stay in now:
The old, the higher risk, the fatalists.

The moon slivers down and fills again with light.
Our car is slowly buried in a litter of leaves.
The garden lush with our attention.

There are birds we know by name: Hummingbirds
and scrub jays and still one tattered hen
who surprised us both by outliving her flock.

Tonight’s guest trots along the fence: a possum
umbered by the sunset heads toward the plums.

Already she is staking out her claim.

Chryss Yost, Ph.D., is a Santa Barbara Poet Laureate (2013-15) and co-editor of Gunpowder Press. Her poems have been widely published in anthologies and journals, most recently in SALT. As a heart attack survivor, she raises awareness about Spontaneous Coronary Artery Dissection (SCAD) and heart health. Also by this poet: "Furious Bread" and "Most Importantly, That"