Small harvests

You've had more than your fair share,
I'd say, if I had an inkling what fair might be in this world.

You've left daily clues —
Strawberry blossoms and green fruit
Inexplicably vanished overnight, summer squash nibbled
At the tender tips, apple cores abandoned on the fencepost —

But it wasn't until the day I saw
You deftly removing a prickly zucchini leaf
From its stem, holding it like an umbrella
Before it toppled, that I believed.

You have left us a single strawberry.
I've yet to harvest an intact zucchini.
Tomatoes you don't seem to care for and
So they line my kitchen windowsill,
Glowing globes of orange, red and yellow
Sunlight brought indoors. And the basil,
Heaven-scented, remains untouched.

What must I do? I ask the air above the garden. Visions appear
Of nets encasing the whole plot, wiry cages against
Your small probing claws and teeth, scent of frightening
Predators deposited in strategic locations —
But even the dog, whose agility, speed, and sharp
Teeth have killed your cousins,
Hasn't kept you away this summer.

My, you are bold and quick. Are you really so hungry?
Or are these green and red temptations you steal each day
Merely easy snacking?

I won't go borrowing tiger scat from the zoo.
But I warn you, Shadowtail:
I know who you are.