Three Popple logs still lie where they fell,
a log triangle; an overgrown dell.
One newly fallen and two not so new,
dissolving repose; beginning anew.
A leaf carpet, yellow, oranges and brown,
soften the lines between logs and the ground.
On white paper bark the sentences close
with woodpecker periods; bark bettle prose.
A Kingdom there lies in this triangled wall,
large for its occupant, really quite small.
The master lords over it all from inside
the soft hollow log; the northern most side.
A watch tower sapling, leaf bare in fall,
helps him stand guard on the barrior wall.
From height his shrill challenge, flickings of tail,
will threaten intruders, Chipmunks and Quail.
Busily covering food with the leaves
the cold winter wind just stripped from the trees.
Whatever resource the earth will provide
leaving nothing to chance, nothing untried.
Linage of mother and father infinite
protects the master, his spouse, his birthright.
Efforts required are efforts extended,
as long as the dell remains as intended.
His kingdom survives; the lay of the land
doesn't agree with the planning of man.
It's not very handy, not very dry;
tree limbs and brambles compete for the sky.
In man's absense the Kingdom's protected
by the miniscule master, pampered and tended.
Left to his care log border to border,
keeping with nature's natural order.
Cold urgent air of the fall is alive;
the scurry of creatures; will to survive.
Livings and dieings unknown to the whole,
lessons unlearned and existance untold.
The Kingdom of Red Buck so far this year
has passed with concern, some effort, some fear.
Blessed by not knowing the threat to his clan,
he can't know the depth of the greed that is man.