Squirrel Convention

Must be a squirrel convention — bushy tales along the way. The road was nutty-gray. Seven of them held signs: Parking this way. Hold on...I hear a knock at the door. It’s an acorn salesman. I tell the little rascal, “I’m not interested.” But the impolite salesman throws nuts on the floor, scurries in, followed by his cohorts. It’s like The Hobbit. These creatures are not invited. They toss and roast these nuts, on a warm Spring day, in my hearth. Who was it that invented fire, imagination and critters? They leave ashes and fur as I chase them with my broom. “Get out!” They do; a woodpecker flies in, “Hullo! How do you do?” My husband comes home. I shrug my shoulders, as he spies a woodpecker in his recliner. The birdy’s tired after drilling holes in our walls. The rascal gets the boot. Better than getting shot. My man pulls out of his bag, a stole — fox fur. You guessed it — alive and well. Well, that’s a wrap folks... 4/29/2021