Squirrel On a Fence Post

I am that so grey squirrel,
paused on a fence post.

Rough dogs are busy
with carrion
of sorts,
which gives me time for
a warm ray,
and twitching.

Spring is not yet here
but will arrive,
in time,
by whatever egregious means
it must,
so,
too,
with armageddon.

I withdraw my sharpened
claws a moment,
wounding only
this leftover and dried doughnut,
from a grease-shack’s kitchen waste,
found,
down the street.

This,
is what it means to be
free.