The Squirrel Holds Tight the Acorn

When I looked again, the squirrel with the acorn 
was gone, perhaps vanishing behind the trees.
Minutes later, I noticed her gray shadow.

She moved to me then ran the other way.
In her fright, she did not notice the car, and 
the car did not notice her.  

For the driver, the squish could of have been 
another crushed pine cone, something to remove 
later with some cursing and a pair of pliers.

Yet, she was not going the short ride home
with him.  She was lying dead in the street,
the acorn still firmly in her little hands.

She did not bounce high. She didn’t have 
the time for that.  She closed her eyes,
lied flat, and flat she stayed, a bloody dent.

I put on my gardening gloves and walked
over to her, picked her up by her tail. 
She still refused the acorn to fall from her.

Just back from the black of the road
amongst the hibernating brown grass,
tinier squirrels agitatedly pranced to and fro.

A glass squirrel took root in my thoughts.
After  looking right through me, it’s trembling 
paws dropped an acorn into my palms.

I moved her body to the other side of the road,
scooped two handfuls of acorns  and placed 
them gently on top of her for the others to see.

“Take what you please,” I shouted to them.
knowing they’ll eat, sleep, and one day, be too late.  

I imagined seeing her scurrying up a cloud  of trees.