|Oct/Nov 2001 • Poetry|
For Weasel Eyes Only!
My grandpa found the notes of a weasel
buried behind his garage.
Scratchy, scrubby, paw-printed memoranda.
Barely readable if you ask me.
But grandpa was a dumb genius of sorts
a man I respected, a brainy fellow
who could read a thing that made no complete sense.
Well, turns out the weasel knew things an owl didn't.
Because there were notes on how to spot a hawk
when the moon is cracked in two.
How to hide from a crow in harsh sun.
Notes on bears and bees and bush berry treats.
Notes on insects that glowed, and the fish they sparkled on,
and how quiet air dances with rain.
Notes on bruising sky crashing thunder. Even notes
on instant weasel death:
crude sketches with dashed and dotted lines
showing an owl's sweeping assault
a cartoon lightening bolt in its wake.
See these markings, grandpa said.
These markings are meant for another weasel.
Then he hid everything behind the garage, saying:
Buggers get smarter and harder to catch.
Old grandpa is dead now, like a lot of smart men.
The weasel too, I'm afraid, long deceased.
Though, the owl remains
a stuffed dusty relic in my attic.
Shot clean by grandma the winter it coughed up
the bones of her kitten in the snow.
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