A nut in mouth, the squirrel hops
Across our lawn in back.
He pauses intermittently
There in his hip-hop track.
We almost overhear his mind
As he deliberates.
Is this the place to bury this?
Oh, tell me please, you Fates!
He stops a dozen times or more,
Traversing all our yard,
And seems consumed entirely by
This question grave and hard.
And then—at last!—he finds a spot
That’s perfect in his mind
And paws and digs and buries with
The prowess of his kind.
Then off he goes in search of more,
Exploring favorite sites—
Preparing for that certain day
When bitter Winter bites.
And so I ask: Would he prefer
To winter in the South
Instead of hopeful hopping with
A chestnut in his mouth?
The umbra of the ancient tree
Sustains and coolly comforts me.
Shakespeare Couplet: Romeo and Juliet (7):
The Montagues devise an evening’s fun:
They'll crash a party—there, some hearts are won. (1.2)