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Caught

A watching squirrel holds
vertically to the trunk of a tree with tail curling down.
It doesn't move until we are almost next to it. 

Then stealths up
into the concealing foliage but still intently
observing from its semi-hidden seat.

Murphy sees too and points her snout as if to ask
"May I spring and catch it?" She assumes
I am such a killjoy.


 
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Posted by on August 25, 2021 in Poetry

 

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