Again, the raccoons got it all, the corn, frilly and long-limbed, so full of silken rattle in the sideways-shifting wind. I thought we'd struck a bargain with the deer, offered them music to soothe their frazzled nerves, and epicurean compost, coffee grounds, eggshells, vegetables, perfectly displayed on top of the pile, unsullied by weeds and manure, tempting them to stand guard over the fenced-in corn, scare smaller beasts away. But no, they crowded into their deer yard, dreaming orange rinds and apples, blueberries still on the bush, varied cultivars of expensive tulip bulbs, freshly laid in the ground for them to excavate at their leisure, never thinking of the field and their job as lookouts. But of course, it's not like we have nothing else to eat, what with thousands of string beans born each day when they should have died long ago, and artichokes that over-wintered when I forgot to pull them up last fall, and squash, still pushing their way past appointed boundaries, swelling, coloring, growing so big I can't even lift them to harvest, thanks to global warming. And the corn. Each gap was perfectly filled with seed that slid from tassel to silk to cob and grew to shining fullness, swollen in its husk and ready to pick. All this happened with the radio on all night in the corn rows, playing Gershwin, Debussy, Poulenc, so as to not alarm the deer but suggest a presence in the garden alert to all shenanigans. I should have played something more aggressive, maybe Wagner or Beethoven or maybe Shostakovich, at least that would have been fit accompaniment to their marauding presumption, each note a cue for the masked and wrathful raccoons. Of course I was wrong. Seeing it in retrospect, with the eye of a director, this mistaken music was horribly mismatched to their rough choreography. It must have induced some parody of adagio, a bestial dance emphasizing clumsiness. Now I blame myself for their rampage, the loss my fault, my profound misunderstanding of animal behavior. The price? The corn field, my treasure, crowning jewel of my garden, trashed and mauled and bitten to pieces.
Danse Macabre
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