I'm kidding, of course, about the "plague" of squirrels.
The squirrels and I actually get along pretty well. Oh, I see them occasionally, pausing to stare at me and one of my funny looking hats.
But they never laugh and poke fun at me ... and I try to treat them with equal respect.
I do recall, though, that there was one encounter the day after we moved into Brimm Manor ... I thought I heard someone ... or something ... at the back door.
It was a squirrel.
From all indications, he was there for a handout. He'd been accustomed to being offered goodies.
Then there was the one which came down our chimney. Did we ever have fun that day!
Mostly, though, we just go our separate ways ... I'm afraid of heights ... and they seem to have a thing about mowing the lawn and watering the flowers.
A PLAGUE OF SQUIRRELS
What vile crimes have I committed
that I must be punished by you,
you frenzied plague of squirrels?
You dig up the tulips, tear out
the gutter guards, leave pizza slices
dangling from the evergreens,
litter the driveway with twigs
and leaves while you perfect the art
of nesting, pile our picnic table
with walnut chewings, spread hysteria
by screeching from the highest limbs,
patter across our silent green roof
at daybreak, hide juicy, squishy things
under the swing's yellow cushions,
come down our chimney bearing gifts
of frantic sooty footprints over all
the basement, spending a whole afternoon
eluding me, until finally hiding
in a box so I might carry you outside
to set you free, a twitch of the tail
your cursory thanks for the ride,
and I see you later scampering down that
superhighway of cable, as though nothing
had happened today, absolutely nothing.
(won a third place award in Ohio Poetry Day competition)
Today's word: scampering