when the snake that would have entered the burrow
had become a clothes line, pinned with nursing pups

nonetheless, when it came to his own yapping brood,
he was as territorial as any other male

running the risk of trying to span too much
when it came down to choosing sides,

he found no compassion for the frenzy
leaping from the bay window and

scurrying on the arm of his astonished roofer
no warmth, either, for overnight gnawing

through pristine crown molding
confronted by his rivals’ succeeding wave

weaned every three or four months,
who did he think he was, trying to command

shipshape precision in this collision?
it was only natural, then, his attempts

to shield his own from foul heavens
should invoke clownish tragedy or cannibalistic humor

just why would he assume in this life or that
anything was holding above their heads?

the roof is a bridge
between trees

*   *   *

squirrels would be snipers
rather than muster in any militia

Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To read the full set of squirrelly poems,
click here.

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