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.

A Sunday in September

Readying to settle into a book,
First, I set my eyes on the canvas of the day.
I perch my chin in my hands and look—another glorious page
from Nature's sketch book, cross hatchings
fine as feathers across the page
forming into bursting rays of light that reach up to its source.

Three dragonflies hover,
suspending themselves on the length of the breeze;
they glide into the small force of gravity.

It's the ocean out there in that splendid sky of blue silk
and white linen wrapped in tinkling bells chiming in the warmest
of winds and the copper glint of light as it bounces
from the wings of the largest dragonfly. He gracefully
makes his way across this most wonderful and natural work of art.