Dear Rambos in camos,

We tire of each aim—yours, lame and untame—that leads to a maim

As you lowly cower in mirage of foliage shower.

Hence, our intention obreptitious, while not *too* malicious,

Turns the tide of sneak onto synthetic strong from never weak.

So, if you hear a pop from field, it may be your turn to yield—

For though we live sans hunting stock, antlers *can* shish prick kebab.

Merely sincerely,

Near deer to fear. ; )

Could that stalwart, angelic Romeo

Be Saint Mark unadorned of wreathed halo,

Preceded by quadriga in formed row,

Immortalized around cinquecento?

Whether so or no, piece is still a glow. ; )

Most avian friends flew south for the winter—perhaps, to play amongst tropical bliss and sugar cane, but this rebel bird up-heads towards an other kind of *beech*—one European-Swiss as tramontane. ; )

For tales of pinched tails due to a cross-the-house mouse chase

That more often than not passed apathetic doorcase

Will henceforth be set in this less-of-a-mess egress—

Where the hunt will circle prey into cat’s hole’s address. ; )

Escaping eeriness of abandoned mansion’s ditch pitch—a state that endured even through daylight hours, Mia’s scotopic senses retreated as she wobblily walked up the street towards trolley’s bench—now misted to a salient saturation of woody petrichor, where she would let morning’s coolness continue to awaken her from perception’s snooze via hues upon dews. ; )