Peach and I are tender hostess species of the hood. We grin fondly at the Fox's bark. We only wish the Skunk would.
We know about the Bear. I've seen her apple poo. If I can draw an inference Then watch cat Peach can too.
We sleep in a small cottage During humid summer moons. Peach perches on an apple box inhaling Deer perfume. Don't eat the roses. I commit to leave more veg scraps soon.
The Bear will put her fat on. We stay out of the fray. She broke the fence down years ago: her very own Appian Way.
But early Monday morning, in the dawn's first creep, we heard a thud, and giant paws glass-whacked our restful sleep.
She slapped the window high, arms stretched like silly putty. Her head we couldn't clearly see – too busy going nutty.
It really happened. That I know. I didn't need insomnia. Peach and I just breathed in time; thought: Bear, do troddle on, yuh.
Today Peach rested up. I plotted strategy. The apples are exploding. So share the largesse, can't we?
I underhanded windfall into the overgrowth. Please stuff your face like Gretel. Congrats on your expanded girth.
Peach and I spy through dilated eyes, 'cause we're cool and calm tonight. So why's she yowling at the Clinch Mountain Boys while I stomp O Death in fright?