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.
Jnana's Red Barn 