Squirrel Talk

Lost in the Black Forest night
lightning, the only light of rain
caught in a hungry cold disorientation
hours wandered around the circling drain

Underneath a cozy dweller bushy-tailed
feels no chill just the thrilled dream of
tomorrow's fallen easter acorn hunt

If I could just recalibrate my inner
dialogue to hear the faster twitter
of the skittering attention's pause

Shrink my lungs to a faster heartbeat
my fingers sharpening to grasp 
the tessellations of oaken bark 

My inner almond orientation
traded for the most spherical of peas
scurrying up the down of bent trees

Smell the forest orchestra crescend
and hear each woodwind limb
and piccolo beetle reed buzz blend

The country map is but a constellation
of unshelled monuments captured 
in an abacus of amygdalal acquisitions
within the musky cairns that mark
the prideland where the sweet flower
roams waiting for an exchange of
chirps for growls sifted for invitations
to the chase, the prance, the agile romance
of bouncing limbs and ruffled leaves
of otherwise unbothered trees 
leaping across the open hawk spaces
to chase fallen treasure into bitty
burrowed caches or steal an unattended
nutmeat, hoarding nature's bounty into
winter's sufficiency

To speak like such a dweller 
such an uncanny smeller scragly feller
would pierce the velvet darkness
a mind opened to a thousand points
of light so easily triangulates the
yellow brick road spiraling to escape
and curl back up for a slumber
tired dreamscape of caramel star umber 
unbothered by wolfpack mentalities
or the need for endlessly fresh meat
safe in the arms of aspen pines
where sapsuckers nest and mountain moon shines