THE SQUIRREL IS A WRIGGLING POEM

Attila the Hun of the deck, his very own Gaul,

bullies the birds from the seed

I’ve scattered, his seed,

its musty dust rising from the grey planks

in a corny cloud. But maybe

wriggling isn’t the right word.

Thumping or twitching?

Leaping or springing? Or not.

Sometimes, he lies flat

on the warm railing,

as if he is a grey strip of tree bark,

a grey stripe of eternity

charming the sun onto his back,

melting into the wood’s grooves.

And when I, seeing him so,

grab my camera with its silky pleasures,

he will finally know himself,

une etoile dans le ciel

more impressive than lion or archer,

basking finally in his own reflected glory.

Happy New Year!