Winter Vermin

Taciturn gargoyles
hold vigil each night,
tucking mulch

into the edges
of flowerbeds. Vying
for partial custody

of persimmons
snipped into confetti,
they totter over

the bawling bushes,
with rude artillery
de ruido, raking

in disgust with
their dust-dance,
curling violin strings

with the crook
of su dedos de piedra,
vermin de invierna. 

Those mute inventions
surf through pipes
and whittle my sleep,

leaving tiny parcels
of what the day
should bring.