It lasted from the end of September
Until the early days of November,
The constant deluge of acorns from the sky
To hit on their lawns, the paved area, and die.

Never, not ever, in his seventy-one years
Can he remember the land scorched by these dears.
The cracks of a rifle, on like heavy metal,
They never fell soft like a rose's petal,

But occasionally fell to the ground with a sound
Like a staccato machine gun firing round after round.
They swept up the whole nuts and the ones that were cracked
With a broom and snow shovel and then they were sacked.

He wondered, as the sidewalks and driveway he cleared,
Where were the squirrels (whose presence they feared)?
Did they lose their appetites in this acorn deluge?
Did they stay high above in their nests for refuge?

It is finally over, the trees are finally free
Of acorns, but now it's up to him
To figure out how he'll get them off his lawn,
He loved the oak trees, but not their dreaded spawn!