The Tower Journal, Spring/Summer 2014
The squirrel flicks
His rusty tail
At first sense
Of snow. Gathers sticks
And fluff from woody trails
While flakes preen & condense
In chimney clouds. Here
Is a woodpecker tapping on rough
Instruments of shredded bark
And rich sap, the only sound a clear
Staccato in metronome rebuff
Against the quiet & the dark
Of mid-December.
We stop to listen & remember.