Click, click, click- the voices lightly pressed from keys;
The house half-dark, the day half-dark, with winter’s gloom
With winter’s gray and graying afternoon,
Drizzling cold but yet it will not freeze-
Stubborn. Squirrels are at the bulbs, out in the yard.
The wretched beasts will always take what isn’t theirs,
Fat and waddling from the trash can, in the city, dare
Accost MY bulbs… would have to keep a constant guard
To save the poor flowers. The animal lovers never
Consider the wasted, ruined, slaughtered flowers.
To squelch my wrath takes all my latent powers-
If we were in the country they would quiver,
Quailed from the gardener’s righteous wrath,
The Fear of Man a lesson soonest learned,
When outraged woman stands her ground full-armed-
Treading out the winepress up the garden path.
Poor beasts. Not meant to live on garbage, or concrete;
No more am I. Both creatures out of place,
Out of the land that knows the hunt, the honest fight for food, the chase.
Here, Nature does not sing and neighbors don’t eat meat.
|"Squirrel Pie," jackhyde.com|