image from Marrie at pinterest.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The squirrels gathered 'neath November’s gold glow, with tails curled proud sitting in a row. They piled acorns high—no plate left bare, a feast in the oaks, with none to spare. The eldest stood, whiskers twitching sage, (His napkin a leaf from a bygone age): "To the humans," he chirped, "though flawed, they try~ their cornucopias tempt us… but we prefer pecan pie." A chorus of chitters! A toast with dew, as they cracked hickory nuts and passed the acorn stew. No turkey for them—just stolen seeds, and gratitude for the backyard greed. For what is Thanksgiving, but harvest delights and fences scaled on frostbit nights? They dined, they danced, till the moon hung low… then raided some trash cans. As squirrels often do.
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