Silly Squirrel

Silly squirrel, climbing up the telephone pole. I see you hop to the wire with a shake of your busy tail. You skitter across in a punctuated frenzy, taking me back to memories of my old home where you greeted me in the mornings like my own personal alarm clock.

I could hear you scurry and race around the great pine tree. I could hear you–the bark under your scratchy feet and your little voice–chirp chirp whirr. We'd fill the water bowl every morning for you. We'd hear when you'd tip it, metal against concrete, as the empty bowl would tip back, sounding the bell.

I would open the door and you'd scurry up the tree, sit there at a close distance watching me watch you. I'd put your bowl down and you'd wait for me to step back. I watched you from the screen door, right there; that screen between us was enough for you to feel secure. I'd watch you with your little hands, gripping the bowl. You'd shove your head down then bob it up real quick to make sure I wasn't going to catch you, and sometimes you'd keep one eye on me as you drank your water.

Silly squirrel, I miss you.

Squirrel

Squirrel, what has gotten into you?
Trying to steal eggs from Blue Jay’s nest.

The past two mornings, outside my
window, you create a ruckus. First I hear you
scurry, little feet running on the rooftop.

Pine limbs shake, and there you are Squirrel,
leaping before my eyes into the tree, an acrobat—Big Blue right behind you,
on your tail, squawking—feathers flapping—he scolds you for rummaging
around in his nest. You keep running—Mischievous Squirrel!