Fall in Mississippi, armadillos, dead, limn roads
I’ve never seen an armadillo, living, walking on some errand of hunger, some rushed return home.
They must hide in the woods or under the Kudzu patch that walks toward my house.
Bodies, depleted of oils that make armor shimmer like glass in the sun, faded pile of unburied soldiers, their tiny feet like flags wave comically.
Backs too rounded and sloped forbid prostrate posturing,
Steadied by rigor mortis,they lean. Tainted by splotches and bruises, they testify.
Yellowed or flowery pink, their tails ingloriously angled.
No trail of entrails, perhaps the crows or random buzzards, flight attendants, collect and recycle them, if they are not distracted by steady traffic of hurried lives looking for anything, except an armadillo limned road.
Fall in Mississippi, armadillos unapologetically dead, limn roads between Oxford and Memphis.
Leaves will follow soon and they too will have no blues strummed about their sorrow.
I never see Armadillos except on TV nature shows and as stuffed overpriced gifts in airport shops that sell everything except discounted water and clove gum.
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