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The sooty, nocturnal creature
and its high-pitched screech,
the prongs of mountain oak
that strike my makeshift cottage,
and even the resolute fist of a rainstorm,
slam-handed, tight against my roof

can’t be counted as company.

Instead, I latch our bedroom window,
refill oil to court the flame of my lamp,
then steep a mug of chamomile,
and shiver inside an afghan cocoon.