Shaking our fist at the tiger

this morning,
life waged itself
under the pin oak
in our shaggy
suburban lawn

with a flash of
russet-feathered
talons and a
tumble of grey fur.

it could have gone
either way.

today, grey fur fled
and russet feathers flew
and no one had
a perfect morning,

but everyone lived
to try again.

if that isn’t defiant joy
shaking her fist
at the tiger
I don’t know what is.

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Tracie Nichols writes poetry and facilitates group writing experiences from under the wide reach of two old Sycamore trees in southeastern Pennsylvania. She is the co-founder of the Embodied Writers writing group and a Transformative Language Artist helping women write themselves home. You can find Tracie on her website.

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