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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