SQUIRRELING

                                   

                                   Some say vermin, but their patch is Harvard Yard,

between Widener and Memorial Church,

amid large-limbed oaks and raddled elms.

As common here as the hungry homeless who lurch

from shelters or subway or benches on riverside

under a haze of liquor and smoke from Camels,

the grey squirrel asks for no change or quarter.

From a distance, as he bobs head to ground,

his bushy, body-long tail curves up in an arc

and down like the elegant neck of a wading bird.

His upward spring, his billowy bounds

brake sharp.  With a twitch, he listens, looks

around, picks up a twig to nibble, starts,

darts behind a tree, claws, clambers five feet,

a pause, then round the bole his curious head peeks.

On the road, the squirrel’s tail acts as blanket,

umbrella, sunshade, retro-engine for soft landing.

The undulations of this brown-to-grey plume

that pales along its fringe is almost luminous.

I like the frisky energy of these down-to-earth creatures,

their eagerness and alert features, their quiet

getting on with the self-catering & storage business.

I like their thrift and the way they hold their ground,

though guarded, squatting forward on nimble haunches,

clasping an acorn or piece of bread in tiny hands,

staring at some old homeless hombre down-at-heel,

shuffling closer with lame shopping cart cluttered

with cardboard, rags, soft drink cans, booze bottles,

pulling up at every bin to rummage through garbage

the squirrels have already checked out.

                                                                        Michael Small

August, 1992, Massachussets, USA