Squirrels Poem by Hans Ostrom

I’ve watched squirrels my whole life. They
inhabit a zone just outside domesticity, are
diplomatically wild. They worry and stare,
behaviors of which I approve. They horde
forgetfully, gorge daintily. Sometimes

they just stop. And fall asleep, mid-day,
on a limb or a fence post, all energy
drained. Sometimes frenzy
possesses them—something to do
with sex or fleas—mad bursts of wants
followed by a frozen pose. Squirrels

are not everything I had hoped wilderness
to be. They are though everything
I would want squirrels to be, and
slightly more, for there’s always
just one more surprise ready to leap
out of squirrel-evolution and seize

the nut, bury it, and pat fresh
soil over the nut-grave. And run away!