the sound of scampering.

It’s not hard to pinpoint reasons
for leaving the back door wide open while showering
Bob Dylan covers
mixing with the backyard bird show
that’s been playing
since a quarter of seven,
when you wanted to call whoever was awake
hold your phone up and hope
they never asked why? and at this hour?
wandering out mostly naked after
to say hello to a fast-acting scaredy cat,
trying again to conjure up a name
for the red flowers exploding on the fence,
each temporary havens to the ants,
hearing squirrels’ feet on branches above,
the sound of scampering,
beauty borrowed for some minutes,
the postcard so few are allowed to see.
 
And they wonder why you daydream
at your desk those hours later
with your wandering heart
as they scurry on with their day,
squirrels on their branches,
words coming out like birdsongs
you wouldn’t open a window to hear.
 
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