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Life as a Squirrel
Crash! Thump! followed by the chattering
of what I can only imagine are rodent curses
and the desperate scrambling of tiny claws:
this has become the soundtrack to my days.
Those seeds must taste real good.
Morning comes, the sky a bouquet of roses,
periwinkles, delphiniums, and my dad
is outside, boots denting the fresh snow
and steamy breath weaving through his
scarf. His mittens turn white with the snow
as he lugs the bird feeder further away from
any squirrel-assisting branches: to no avail.
They can still make the jump.
Those seeds must taste real good.
My dad’s dreams are of the same landscape,
yet brightly colored birds orchestrating our
breakfast instead of clumsy yet acrobatic
squirrels. They have plenty of food! Yet I’m
not sure that they do, looking at the snow.
Those seeds must taste real good.
The morning light is bright, one of those
days in winter where sunglasses are vital.
The bird feeder doesn’t have a shadow—
except when the squirrel comes flying
out of nowhere, sending it rocking and seeds
tumbling on the ground. The shadow shakes,
like a puppet show on a backdrop of white
snow. I’m hungry, I’m adorable, the squirrel
says. Birds? What birds? Stop moving it,
can’t you see that I’m smarter than you?
Those seeds must taste real good.
The birds visit the feeder increasingly
less. We get woodpeckers, chickadees
mostly. I guess they are the ones that aren’t
afraid of the daily visits of the flying squirrel
circus. The cardinals peck at the seeds that
the squirrels leave behind in their wake.
Those seeds must taste real good.
Why do you try to get seeds from the bird feeder
when there’s seeds on the ground that the birds
drop? I ask. I imagine it’s silky fur and thick
feathery tail against my palm. It pokes me
with its cold and wet button nose. Go big
or go home, it says. It’s a battle. I’m going to
win. The seeds on the bird feeder taste better,
anyways. A pale pink tongue emerges
from its mouth and wets its lips.
Those seeds taste real good.
Tomorrow my dad will go to the
store, by a baffle to puzzle the squirrels,
stop the feeder post climbing game
they play. He’ll add some seeds—
sprinkles on the white snowy icing—
to keep them happy. They’ll visit, but
not as much. They’ll still climb the tree
and ponder the jump. Someday they’ll
attempt it. But today I can enjoy the fun.
Those seeds must taste real good.
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