The Feasts of Fall
By Flying John
I know not what is, nor what it may be called. But it comes to eat at my house in the evening, in the fall.
I hear its mashing teeth at night, the gnawing sound, and all. It dines beneath my bedroom window, every evening, in the fall.
I fed it from that window, table scraps you know. I use to retire before it came, but that was long ago.
I’ve never look to see it shape, nor know its weight or size. For I do not wish to know the beast, and I think that choice is wise.
Bear, Dragon, Wolf, or Woodland Boar, I’m sure it’s quite a fright. What ever it is, it's out there, this fanged wander of the night.
I’ll continue of course to feed it, though now it's become a chore. For if I stop, I fear to think, it may come through my door.
So I write this night, as it dines below, then off to bed I’ll crawl. Good night my wily dinner guest, enjoy your feasts of fall.