365 Poems: December 17th, 2014

The Squirrel

A squirrel runs up the power-line

on a blustery weekday morning.

I look up and watch him

as he scuttles along,

the wind swaying his black tightrope

as he moves along, paw after paw.

He stops for a moment and looks at me,

then continues on his way.

I wonder if he can feel

the electricity between his toes,

or if these thin dark bridges mean nothing to him.

Does he know how close he is to death?

.

Do we know?

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