Gideon Stands Guard
The moon, a charcoal smudge, hangs low and dim,
while stars, like pinpricks, pierce the black night.
Clicking crickets creates a raucous hymn,
and katydids whir on new wings to take flight.
A yellow bulb's honeyed glow makes a homey sheen
until a timer flicks a switch turning off the light
and letting darkness rush into the tranquil scene,
making baby goats bleat from fright.
In the corner lays a lumpy carpet of fur
made by mamma goats cuddling nice and tight;
making the entire goat herd an entangled blur
of white rumps and necks entwined in the night.
Except for little Gideon, who stands in the barn door;
a castrated pygmy goat turned into a withered grazer,
stares at the house below without a snort or a snore,
as he chews his cud, thinking about some tormentor.
Why else stand guard?
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