in the mist wood morning,
he rises
on his slender branch~
a small furry silhouette
against descending gold.
the leaves know him,
rustling his name
in quiet spirals;
the fog parts
just enough
to crown his tail
with pale light.
he is keeper
of the in-between places~
where amber meets shadow,
where breath becomes breeze,
where time pauses
long enough
for magic
to remember itself.
his eyes, bright as dew,
read the woodland’s secrets:
which tree dreams of summer,
which root hums with old stories,
which path is safe
for wandering hearts.
one twitch of whisker,
one soft lift of paw,
and the forest listens~
every branch,
every drifting leaf,
every creature
waiting for his signal
to begin the day.
he is small,
yes~
but the mist knows
power isn’t measured
in size,
only in presence.
and in this suspended autumn,
he stands
as guardian of the golden quiet,
the one who keeps watch
over forest dreams.
Today’s September 2d,
but Sam the squirrel is not impressed~
no brisk air, no acorns dropping,
just heat he can’t digest.
He squints up at the cloudless, furnace sky,
tail drooping in sweaty defeat:
“Where’s pumpkin spice and sweater weather?
Why is Texas still a heat-wave cheat?”
Beside him stands an armadillo,
cool as a desert stone.
He shrugs beneath his armored shell:
“Buddy, this is Texas. We own the heat zone.”
The squirrel fans his face with a wilted leaf,
dramatic as dramatic can be:
“I’m filing a fall-weather complaint!”
The armadillo sighs, “File one for me.”
crimson squirrel, adventurous summer
bought a book said, 'your life could be calmer~'
so in peaceful delight
he read day into night,
didn't gather nuts (his autumn bummer).
dogs bolt outdoor
squirrel scrambles for it's life
jumping fences
bandana blazing red,
belt cinched tight with purpose,
the squirrel muttered, “I’m rootin’, tootin’,
and absolutely not sharing my trail mix~
bless your heart for askin’.”
He sits at his stump-desk
as though the forest appointed him
keeper of its minor truths~
wire-rimmed glasses catching the low light,
plaid bowtie knotted with intention.
The wooden laptop waits,
open to whatever thought
the morning has not yet named.
Coffee steams beside the inkwell,
papers scattered like fallen leaves
he has already begun to translate.
Even the landline, absurd in its presence,
seems to understand
that calls here are rare
but always important.
The uncracked pecans rest beside his papers,
not symbolic, simply present~
a reminder that some work
starts with the smallest,
most ordinary labor of the hands.
He studies the papers strewn around him,
each marked with the faint trace
of earlier attempts at order.
For a moment he simply reads,
letting the work tell him
where to begin.
squirrels’ rewards, gifts
harvests of autumn, blessings
gathering bounties
coolness of dawn breathes courage
leaves wash the mountains in hope
He wasn’t supposed to jump.
He only wanted the peanuts.
But one curious sniff near the open door
and suddenly~
there he was,
parachute blooming behind him
like a startled balloon animal.
His goggles fogged with fear,
his tail doing interpretive dance,
he squeaked something that sounded
very much like
“I DIDN’T SIGN UP FOR THIS.”
Yet as the wind carried him downward,
he began to relax~
realizing that even accidental heroes
get a pretty spectacular view.
Amber carpet of fallen leaves
Underneath tall brown trees
That rock sway in cool breeze
Unique autumn crunch under feet
Making piles as we rake and play
Never too early and never too late
Seeing grey squirrels scampering
Beagle barks chases then whimpering
Red leaves are my favorite thing
Enjoy the cardinals as they sing
And the air is full of pumpkin spice
Traveling in winds from baker’s wife
Heart so warm due to happy life
When of food we did talk
she would balk
of course
to feed on horse
and quail
at tasting snail
but who knew
squirrel stew
was taboo
and don't you know
altho'
I'd never cadge a badger
eating crow
was a no-no
thus dining out
was an ordeal
for there's no knowing
what could be our meal
as going hungry is not fun
when it came to the crunch
I've had ants bat and snake
for lunch
Hear these hibiscus hymns
Colorful souls fragrant breeze
Like song in nose in ears swim
Delightful gold melodies
Lovely ballet of blue butterflies
Wings that flutter around flowers
The beauty against summer skies
Daydreaming in the garden for hours
Hearts that seek a healthy retreat
Find a bench to sit and reflect
Listen to red birds happily tweet
As squirrels scamper nature respects
Crab grass seems to add a note
As bare feet walk so leisurely
Like green symphony with tan toes
Tall trees with leaves that sing
Hibiscus hymns are inside all
Who open heart and pray
Breaking down imagined wall
Seeing nature and man embraced
squirrel sees danger
barks and twitches tail from tree
cat peeks from hosta
On a blistering branch of July,
a squirrel lay flat as a pancake,
tail limp, paws splayed,
melting into the bark like warm butter.
He squinted at the sun in the sky,
that smug, blazing tyrant,
and muttered to no one in particular,
“Honestly… this is excessive.”
Beads of sweat rolled down his nose.
Others dripped off his whiskers.
He fanned himself with a wilted leaf
that gave up halfway through the job.
Finally, he stood, wobbly and dramatic,
and shouted toward the sunlit void:
Has anyone tried turning the weather off and on again?
The oak trees rustled considering the suggestion
But the heat stayed.
The squirrel sighed,
flopped back down,
and added,
“Well… it worked for my router.”
A squirrel booked a spa day, fed up with all the treetop riff-raff;
he stretched out in our garden mud, declaring it a “mineral luxury bath.”
By late July,
the Texas squirrel has begun
questioning the architecture of the universe.
He sits on the fence,
tail wilted like a forgotten feather duster,
and watches the sun perform
its daily act of unreasonable brilliance.
He wonders
why any deity would design a world
where a creature with a fur coat
must endure temperatures
that make asphalt sweat.
He contemplates free will~
specifically his own decision
to move to Texas.
Was it destiny?
A cosmic joke?
A clerical error in the Book of Rodents?
He wanders the yard slowly,
as if each step is a meditation
on suffering,
identity,
and the location of the nearest shade.
At last he pauses,
gazes at the shimmering horizon,
and arrives at a revelation
worthy of a tiny Texas monk:
“Heat,” he declares,
“is the universe’s way
of reminding me
to get my life together.”
Then, after a long, solemn silence,
he adds,
“I have also concluded
that I cannot go to hell.
Texas has already shown me
the trailer.”
With this,
he nods wisely,
as if he has solved
one of the great mysteries of existence.
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