the clear pebbles of rain are moving across the landscape
Last night, my tire nearly flattened
a black squirrel, but at the last moment he ran
into the path of another car, and still died.
I sent this poem to Nin this morning. She thought it was very sad. I meant it to be funny. She laughed later. This morning there were squirrels all over the park path. The path that opens into a long gate protecting the most overzealous or perhaps depressed runners from going straight over the ledge into Lake Erie. The squirrels were no doubt confused with the warm weather. Raining, no snow, fog rising, third day of January. They were so fat and barely moved each time I circled the lane toward them. In the early half miles they would move slightly to the side, but by the time I was nearly finished running, they just stayed right next to the path filling their bellies with whatever had been covered a week ago with a foot of snow. One was so fat that I couldn’t even see his hips. He probably wouldn’t have run even if he wanted to. These squirrels were gray squirrels, I’m sure of it, though they shouldn’t be this close to the Lake. Though there are many parks in this part of Ohio and they’re known to feast on hickory, beech and oak tree nuts and fruits. They also like the flowering dogwoods and persimmons. When Ohio was first settled, 95% of the land was forested. Some said that the squirrels could go from the Ohio River all the way to Lake Erie without ever touching the ground. When I think of squirrels, gray or otherwise, I think of my Mom so angry, peering through the glass of the deck door to the bird feeder where there would always be a squirrel squeezing his fingers through the maze of the “squirrel proof” bird feeder to get to the seeds. I always thought of them as so dirty because of the way she disdained them, the way many people do. But today, in the rain, they swung their tails up above their heads to protect their faces from water as they ate the buckeyes. Their tails got soggy and the hairs stuck together in clump like gray and white mops. Tomorrow it’s expected to snow, so I guess I won’t see them. Though I imagine they’ll be cracking the code to someone’s bird feeder, or swing from trees on the way to the Ohio River.
I’m covering up what I’m really feeling today. Soon we may be away from the lake, in walls and windows and roads again. Voices again. Car alarms and running vacuum cleaners. I’m not as sad as I thought I would be, though I do cherish my solitary life. My black lab sleeping next to me in my chair, waves waves waves outside, the deck lights still dripping with one long thick icicle. And tomorrow, and the next day, and summer, I’ll probably miss it, like I always miss the water, like I miss myself when I can’t feel lost in something bigger.
a black squirrel, but at the last moment he ran
into the path of another car, and still died.
I sent this poem to Nin this morning. She thought it was very sad. I meant it to be funny. She laughed later. This morning there were squirrels all over the park path. The path that opens into a long gate protecting the most overzealous or perhaps depressed runners from going straight over the ledge into Lake Erie. The squirrels were no doubt confused with the warm weather. Raining, no snow, fog rising, third day of January. They were so fat and barely moved each time I circled the lane toward them. In the early half miles they would move slightly to the side, but by the time I was nearly finished running, they just stayed right next to the path filling their bellies with whatever had been covered a week ago with a foot of snow. One was so fat that I couldn’t even see his hips. He probably wouldn’t have run even if he wanted to. These squirrels were gray squirrels, I’m sure of it, though they shouldn’t be this close to the Lake. Though there are many parks in this part of Ohio and they’re known to feast on hickory, beech and oak tree nuts and fruits. They also like the flowering dogwoods and persimmons. When Ohio was first settled, 95% of the land was forested. Some said that the squirrels could go from the Ohio River all the way to Lake Erie without ever touching the ground. When I think of squirrels, gray or otherwise, I think of my Mom so angry, peering through the glass of the deck door to the bird feeder where there would always be a squirrel squeezing his fingers through the maze of the “squirrel proof” bird feeder to get to the seeds. I always thought of them as so dirty because of the way she disdained them, the way many people do. But today, in the rain, they swung their tails up above their heads to protect their faces from water as they ate the buckeyes. Their tails got soggy and the hairs stuck together in clump like gray and white mops. Tomorrow it’s expected to snow, so I guess I won’t see them. Though I imagine they’ll be cracking the code to someone’s bird feeder, or swing from trees on the way to the Ohio River.
I’m covering up what I’m really feeling today. Soon we may be away from the lake, in walls and windows and roads again. Voices again. Car alarms and running vacuum cleaners. I’m not as sad as I thought I would be, though I do cherish my solitary life. My black lab sleeping next to me in my chair, waves waves waves outside, the deck lights still dripping with one long thick icicle. And tomorrow, and the next day, and summer, I’ll probably miss it, like I always miss the water, like I miss myself when I can’t feel lost in something bigger.
posted by jessica at 10:29 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home