A flattened Cane Toad lies
in the street.  Its poison can kill a dog. 
They hunt by the garage at night
under the light - run when I come out 
leap into the garage door
with a THUD.  Invasive.
Not bright.
When the temperature drops
below 40 in South Florida,
iguanas fall from trees like rain.
“Don’t touch them” we’re told
these colorful creatures are dormant.
They advise us to kill them -these visitors
from the Jurassic. I cannot.
How could they know they’re trespassing?
Purple stalks of Lupine carpet Iceland
their color pops against green moss.
Their beauty out-competes
local flowers - poses for photo ops
with tourists picnicking by “Keep Off” signs,
blankets old lava flows and glacial melts.
Visitors stride from ships and planes to seek
this island’s treasures - yet urge it to trade
silkies for Sea World.
Loosestrife blooms each August at riverside
in my old town.  The mill wheel turns.
Art hangs in the stone museum. 
People come for the small shops and fine buildings
but stay for quiet streets overcast by ancient trees.
The area booms when the Interstate is finished -
corporate folks out-compete farmers. 
Agway loses to Walmart.
Commuters careen past hay wagons
on country roads.