Armadillo

Gary S. Rosin

October 6, 2024

Sitting in a blind,
beside a field of stubble,
the wheat, harvested,

but grain, left on the ground,
enough to draw the deer,

waiting for a buck
to melt out of the trees,
waiting in the cold

December afternoon,
breath, fogging my glasses.

Suddenly, a stir,
a shuffle in the leaves,
behind the blind—

an armadillo, searching,
sniffing for an early snack.

The noise echoed
ever louder in my ears,
as it made its way,

slowly approaching, slowly
moving to just behind,

but not moving on,
caught by the scent of something,
clawing, here and there,

until I could not stand it,
and slapped the side of the blind.

The armadillo
startled—suddenly, it sprang
three feet, straight up,

and seemed to hang in the air,
a foot away from my face.

Long snout. Tiny eyes.
Huge ears. Bands of armor. Hairs,
stiffly poking through.

Segments of tail. Long, long claws,
scrabbling, slashing at the air.

Until, at last,
it dropped into the grass,
then scurried away.

And I was left, gaping,
still seeing armadillo,

claws, slashing near my face.

Gary S. Rosin’s work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Chaos Dive Reunion Cold Moon Journal, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Texas Poetry Assignment, The Senior Class: 100 Poets on Aging, The Ekphrastic Review, Verse Virtual, and elsewhere. He has two chapbooks, Standing Inside the Web, and Fire and Shadows.