To A City-Park Squirrel
By Amos Russel Wells
Dear little exile from woodlands dear,
How can you keep your wilderness grace,
How can you bound so merrily here,
Shut in this narrow and formal place?
Still your fancies are forest-free,
Still as gallant you swing and glide
From dusty tree to skeleton tree
As once you roamed through the woodlands wide.
Surely you must, on a witching night,
Flee from the prisoning haunts of men,
Over the housetops take your flight,
And bathe yourself in the woods again!
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Monday was a Monday -- things that had to get done, laundry, a new fuzzy heated blanket on the couch that made the cats suspicious until they started fighting over it. The weather was gorgeous and
apaulled had a conference call in the late afternoon so we took a walk early, where we saw lots of squirrels and sparrows and one bunny hiding under a neighbor's bush. Also, this happened to what's left of our jack-o-lantern.
There was mixed good news -- terrible coronavirus numbers and my governor being half-assed about shutting things down, but everyone besides Trump has finally declared it over, which will make it harder for him to start a war to stay in office and Biden has the makings of a cabinet. We watched Antiques Roadshow, then the second half of the Bucs-Rams game, and now The Fate of the Furious is destroying my remaining brain cells.
