This poem is based on an eerie sound I have been hearing recently in my back yard.
ON DAY 42 OF THE OIL SPILL
In dry woods behind my house
one of the trees is squeaking
in rising winds, perhaps a heedless
willow over-reaching its new branch
down to the evaporating gully.
One of the trees is squeaking, a sound
like the final swipes of paper towel
on an attic window — thin and septic,
a pinched distress. One of the trees
reminds me of a injured creature
squealing. Its zithering goes on and on,
no rainstorm to come to our aid.
by Therese L. Broderick