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Drafts, Fauna, Poetry


As every year, the squirrels played favorites
when it came to devouring Autumn’s bounty.

Perhaps springtime’s myopic gorging
left little room for considering
more than rodent celebrity.

I watch the squirrels at my window, safe
behind glass smudged
with yesterday’s spilled coffee. How did I spill
coffee on a window? It was simple:
I wasn’t looking where I was walking.

I wasn’t looking
where I was going (which is different
from not looking where I was walking) because
I wasn’t going where I was looking
and where I was walking
was not where I intended to go.

And so I have streaks of what I can only swear
look like the tears of melted sand: burnt
offering of darkened char, melted substance
that was once both cliff and cave-wall.

And so my window, where I wasn’t going, remains
dirty and the squirrels continue to feast
as they wake from long slumber. Before turning away

I think fondly on the seasons and upon old scenes seen through new windows.



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