we packed up the miniature squirrels
except the one that scrambled onto the roof—
or maybe they were goats. I saw them jumping
when I went to clear out the A-frame—
or maybe it was a lean-to. The guy called it a tent.
He said he met a fundraising group
camping in the forest out back, but maybe
it was a role-play group bounding through the woods
with Robin Hood bows and arrows.
They called themselves The Gold
and when I turned to search for them
between the tree trunks, the forest shifted yellow.
Bright leaves shivered onto brown-green branches
and filled the frame. The ground was a mattress of mulch.
He said "We have to go now," but I wasn't sure.
Maybe I wanted to stay and sleep in golden leaves.
Sarah Carleton writes, edits, plays the banjo and home-schools her son in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in Houseboat, Burning Word Literary Journal, Avatar Review, Poetry Quarterly, The Bijou Poetry Review, Off the Coast, Shark Reef, Wild Violet Magazine, The Binnacle and Cider Press Review. She has work upcoming in Nimrod, The Homestead Review and Chattahoochee Review.