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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