Squirrel

The cold draws them in almost a dozen to my chagrin; furry black eyed grays wooly bear squirrel daze, well fed but still wanting to fill the vacant thrill of winter's cold barren needs. I suppose it's my fault of stars that draws them to the yard where sunflower seeds await with no fear to hesitate, they banter freely in their display consuming all that awaits the stray safe and feeding eagerly. Burly grays with freckled tails of brown they swiftly flow from tree to ground, chubby bellies filled each can barely able to hold still; in race and chase they take their turns tempted by the seeded cones and ferns filling the cold and empty burns. It's a winter morning cold when they leave the clustered nest bold to greet the fading pale sun as they set their path on the run; then checking all the recurring placements they feed their hunger statements content and filled yet always wanting more.