|Oct/Nov 2010 Poetry|
after the Columbia re-entry disaster (February 2003)
Near the chestnut planted last year, a squirrel digging. He's comical if you think of him as a small person full of silly wish, such busy little hands, Isn't there something down here I could eat, or maybe here, or over here? The squirrel's lived nearby long enough not to fear the now-arthritic dog who learned long ago he won't catch squirrels in a yard with this many trees. Dog and squirrel go about their business, seeming to ignore one another. Hearing jets I look up into the clouds to see no planes, just a seven-goose vee flapping northeast, Canada geese, a number easy to count, to count, to count and count.