From the dark side
of the sunlit glass,
I watch a squirrel,
without fear, leap
from one trunk
to another tree's limb
Does her stomach drop
as the slim arm bends
down in surprise
and back up again?
Or is she merely an arrow
—the spoke of one thought—
indifferent to autumn's
vainglorious shouts
fixed on the task
of a half-complete nest
where the work of her body
must purse like a comma,
pausing—
and pregnant —
with what comes —
after the tree
has jettisoned its leaves
and the snow falls silent
and godless
and cold
