On a cold day,
I sit comfortable,
surrounded and kept from what is real
by the steel
and glass of human pretension,
our magnificent folly.
Through a slanted window I watch
while squirrels busy themselves
at mundane procedures.
The mundane is necessary of us all,
ordered by God, if you will,
or by the inertia of life and spirit if you won’t.
A solitary black squirrel seems uncomfortable,
now the temperature has fallen some and
brought grey squirrels into HIS territory,
who chitter about with their own work.
Grumbling, he twitches,
keeps at his rapid chewing on a
found object…
someone’s dried, cast-off crust of sandwich…
while side-eyeing the nearest grey blur
of fur,
who wears
what appears
as a tiny, brown, winter-inspired
hat.
I think Mr. Black is entertaining such
greedy and isolationist thoughts as:
‘That fat, grey bastard had better
keep his damned distance’. Or,
‘Who the hell let lesser beasts
in?’
With one, split-second pounce
he dashes toward the closest grey,
who,
drawing from the well of trained-in reflex,
runs far enough away.
Robert On The Air 