The Squirrels

Busy rhyming (and other things) offsite, but inspiration struck me today. Looking forward to getting more sportsy in the spring…well. “Spring.” As it were.

It looks like squirrels died here.
A family below the trees, in a grassy line;
Large and small and brown and gray.
Their futile claws dig still into the dirt,
So the city’s winds do not touch them.
Zomibified grass surrounds them
But there they stand still…

I blink and they are all that’s left
Of yesterday’s snow. It is February
And winter has never come to stay.

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Giants 21, Patriots 17

I don’t remember how many football fields I’ve ever seen. I could come up with a decent guess for in-person, but what about over the screen?
They are standardized, the white yard lines (which never, from my seat, look a yard apart, always more like feet) drawn on top of the green.
I’ve stood on a long but narrow lawn, and tried remembering (“How far away were you from the stage? Imagine a football field.”) And although
I know they’re supposed to be a unit, when it comes down to gauging with them in my head, I have to shrug and say “No, I don’t really know.”
But after misused timeouts allow the clock to tick along at what is for football an unusually clockesque pace, the last drive comes at last.
They zoom out. And though I don’t care who wins, the distance from the fifty-yard line or somewhere to the endzone has never looked so vast.