The hole was certainly not there before. The poor creature must have made it himself. Cinched halfway in our fence is a trapped squirrel.
When I awoke Cory alerted me, Though my eyes were already arrested By the thrashing, writhing tube of brown fur And the clods of dirt frantically upturned. Desperately trying to dig himself down, He barely scrapes the ground, as his hind legs Surely dangle behind him, far too thick To fit through the tiny hole he gnawed out. After these exertions he stretches, slinks, And droops like a doll halfway in a chest.
When we approached he became a different Doll entirely: a ragdoll, a chew toy Flung against the fence by the jaws of fear. We got him to take ahold of a broom; He made a raspy growl as he bit in, Then he grasped it like a life preserver. We tried to slowly pull him from the hole, The sound he made changed immediately: A sonic squeal of pain and terror, shrill As the tools the dentist puts in your mouth.
Instead we thought we might work from behind. I took a peek around Donny's backyard, But the corner where his back fence meets ours Is too narrow and is blocked by a tree; On our other neighbor's side, even more. I stood on a chair to peer over top: There's a maybe two-foot no-man's-land Full of bramble and dead branches and scrub Narrowly enclosed by a chain-link fence. Too much to clear and no room to work in. We couldn't see him on that other side.
My only idea was a plywood board That we have resting on the porch's wall; I thought maybe it could be a platform To give an upward angle he could climb, Hopefully out of his predicament. When that failed I thought perhaps we could use It to goad him backwards the way he came By making a reverse ramp—as it's raised Parallel to the fence with him upwards, Might he slide down as if on a drawbridge? No. This merely squished him against the wall.
It's obvious we can't save him ourselves. I doubt it's a matter for the police; I wonder if Fish and Wildlife will help. I did what I always do when in need: Call Mom and Dad. Then I called the sheriff, Who referred me to FWC. For sure the squirrels are too prosperous To warrant rescue for conservation. I searched for some animal rescue groups, Shelters, and the Humane Society, But they only made note of cats and dogs. The free experts are for gators and birds And sea life in danger of being poached. Can we afford to call a pest control Service to save one squirrel from a fence?
Suddenly there came a knock at the door. Dad had come out this way down SH Drive. He and I went out for another round, Surveying the situation at hand. He brought a pincer which had similar Results to the broom, as the squirrel squirmed And twisted in defense we saw the raw, Red spot where his frantic friction had scraped. "You think maybe some cooking spray or PAM, "You got some PAM in the house?" "No, nothing "Like that. I haven't even got butter." "Do you got any Vaseline," he asked. "Something like that, yeah I have some lube." I returned with a little purple tube Of Astroglide and poured above the spot Where the wall met his matted, dirt-caked fur. Dad tried the grabber to give him some help, But all he could do was helplessly shriek. We also had a couple metal pipes; This time I held my plywood board over The squirrel as a kind of guard while Dad Put one pipe on top and slammed the other Into it like a hammer and chisel. We put our caveman plan into action, But the fence's vinyl has caveman strength And resisted the blunt rim of the pipe. The squirrel squeaked and squealed beneath the blows. "Poor thing, he's just a baby too," said Dad. Drops of rain began to muddy the site. "I think he might be SOL, Nicky." "Yeah, maybe this is just his last mistake." "Well, let's see if we can call somebody," But we had the same results as before. Even the pest control number we called Couldn't be here earlier than Monday. It's Saturday. He won't hold on that long. "I'm sorry. I wish we could do something," Dad said, looking out the window at him.
We stood in silence for a few moments. The sad fact is squirrels die every day; I can't count how many I've seen on roads. The rain fell on the yard and the poor beast. His torso hung down, enervated, weak. Am I resigned to this small creature's death? I didn't have to be. Dad turned to me, Exclaimed, "you know what, the clippers'll do, "And I got a pair of pliers. Let's go."
The shower drizzled out by our return. I again took up my trusty plywood; Dad gripped his clippers by their green handles, They look like oversized safety scissors Crossed with a pair of pliers. I knelt down And placed the board over the squirrel's back, Pressing down so slightly to give Dad space To insert the clipper. He whimpered out But the vinyl being sheared away must Have brought some comforting hope to the dear. The job's not done yet though; Dad cut a strip Of fence lengthwise then put the pliers in. He began to pull and twist the white wall. Some nervous squealing and a yelp of pain, The pliers snagged a tiny tuft of grey As they wrenched back the fence's siding. This, the last pain of his imprisonment, I'm sure the animal was glad to pay. The dirt and grass rustled to our left. As sudden as sunlight he had darted Out from the wall, under the wooden board, Straight to a nearby tree for his refuge. He rested for a little while, then left, And that's the last we saw of the squirrel.
I screamed expletives in pure excitement! I knew this already but, "Dad, you're a "Fucking hero!" We embraced in relief, And as I moved the wood board from the hole I gasped, understanding why I couldn't See his rear on the fence's other side: There wasn't a hole leading through at all. "The poor little guy must've fell in here "Somehow, one of these caps must be missing," He told me as he pointed up the post. "We'll take care of that later. We did it!" An admittedly proud thankfulness swelled In my heart. We hugged again, then gathered Up the tools and muddy pipes and such things. "Thank you for saving the squirrel." "We had to; I felt for the poor baby." With his work done, the hero returned home. I brought myself to Cory in triumph, "We did it together, we saved him, dear!" "You and your dad saved him. I did nothing." "That's not true, you were the first responder!" My boy always minimizes his role, But everyone was important to this. All took part today in saving a life.
Blue jay, hi! Blue jay, ho! Springing from each angled bough, Fluttering aground, Pulled aloft like a puppet Back up to the browned Bower barely above it. Blue jay high, blue jay low!
One goodbye, one hello; Wondering time, watch its tow. See it standing still? On the first of diversions Seasons start to spill; Lead our lovely excursions Blue jay, hi! Blue jay, ho!
Blue I sigh, feeling slow And inert. How to go Where I want to be, (And where is that exactly?) More than merely me, Maybe. It depends on who's asking— Then at once: blue jay, yo!
Every day marvels show Beauty's spark flash in both Beings grandiose And the commonplace creatures; Perhaps I learn the most From these humblest of teachers. I get high, I lay low.
You, my love, you are so Blue, but know that although Sometimes we must lay In the valleys and doldrums, Always comes the day. Who knows when we'll behold some Blue jay high, blue jay low!
Whip me into shapes of low, submissive apology; put your name on each corner of the cudgel you scour me with.
There's a reason—when it comes from you: harsh reflections drawn from your own dissatisfaction and insecurity, the daunting vacuum of the future— there's a reason it feels right for me to take such heavy- handed excoriation. I deserve it.
When you hold peril above my head, I remember my mother pleading, what could she do for me, and my barbaric answer, kill me.
I look (admittedly with shame) at the several scars up and down my wrist and arm; I recall the frenzied self-inflicted batterings.
Life before you resurrected me, I've told you, though it's impossible to really know; but when your eyes widen with insanity, with mania, with sick rage, it's a mirror to my history.
Not only do I deserve the castigation, you deserve the patience I got.
I had wanted less and less, to be distilled into nearly nothing. You want more and more, to overflow with endless bounty. Neither of us excelled to such extents, but in self-abasement our tears are one.
Bash me with disdain for wanting nothing more, you have the right if I believe that you should humble your expectations.
What's more difficult, to grow from nothing into something, or to shrink from dreams to a single datum? Hopefully somewhere in the middle, where we draw each other, is the right place for us.
Certainly it's more difficult to be found in your circumstances, nomadic, isolated, uprooted; I can never fathom the horror of watching your mother deteriorate, jaundiced and dessicated until she finally passed away. Without Mom I would have self-destructed.
You're right when you tell me I don't know you. We have our differences, but I want to give you the things I have that you never did.
It finally happened, and I Have felt the most singular joy: Franklin, the largest of our ducks, And I think the father of most of them, Ate blueberries out of my hand!
Our younger ducks are still skittish, So I simply toss them berries; But Franklin's courageous and comfortable, He doesn't fear the touch of this ape. And if ever I feared the bill of a duck, Truth reveals that completely baseless. Franklin is sweet beyond compare: It feels like rounded tongs when he nibbles, Gently tickling my palms for fruit.
And not just that, though that's sublime, He even let me pet his breast! He held himself with the dignity Of a wild animal, yet serenely, Familiarly he accepted my touch. With the backs of my first two fingers I softly stroked his dappled breast.
Franklin gives his mouth a lick And holds his head up while I pet him. I look into his golden eyes, At his leathery, red face, The equal streaks of black and white Which course atop his fluffy head And down his neck; he's so plush!
I thank him for allowing me To feel the soft touch of his down. He chuffs as if to thank me in turn For the blueberries. He is content. What an incredible creature I'm blessed To have as a neighbor purely by chance, This muscovy duck Franklin!
Should you have the joy of being Around ducks in the morning or evening, You've surely seen the way they stretch— One leg extending backward As the matching wing fans out.
I must have spent several scores Of sunsets and twilights and even a dozen Daybreaks squatting beside these birds, But only once have I seen a stretch The way that Percy pulled it off.
He balanced on a single leg And started splaying feathers out; As I sat behind him on his left, He seemed to point each feather at me. Perfectly propped like a tiny scarecrow, I didn't notice it at first.
Beginning to kick a leg out, As if by legerdemain, from his right The little extremity extended! He paused: the ambiguous spinning dancer; And stretched his toes like a black canvas.
He flared his midnight wing once more, Kicked his foot its entire length; Then he set it back on the clay And gave a little shake, ruffling His iridescent feathers up, Looking like a brass pinecone With subtle green and purple patina.
It seems so rare to me; indeed I've never seen it before or since. Percy then settled back down To gaze at the sinusoidal pond. Franklin was laid beside him, and Norm And, further off in a shadow, George Slumbered on the shore nearby.
I was squatting down on my haunches, And my knees were beginning to ache. We decided to let them sleep. I stood up and stretched my own legs but Not nearly as spectacularly As Percy, the little black duck With a dickie of white breast feathers.
The Master said: “A cup not a cup: A cup indeed! A cup indeed!” -Confucius, Analects VI.24
The best thing I could ever be Is a cup. I wish to be filled With all that destiny will pour; I wish to hold it all, and yet Be nothing more than the vessel, Be able to pour it all out, Be capable of emptiness, Yet still the same exact vessel.
Let me fill up with the ideas And dreams of contemporaries, Finding methods to mold their shapes, To hold them each without spilling; Let them fulfill triumphs with me, And lift victory to their lips With me as humble implement, One of many who may have helped.
Let me bear the mixtures of fate, The windfalls and catastrophes, The tragedies and elations, Moments of otiose ennui, Humdrum days into humdrum weeks; The little words that shouldn't mean More than laughter and love of life, A cup with the integrity To keep all that held together Until the time to pour it out.
A cup is perfectly empty: It can be filled, it can be drained. It can hold and can toss away. Fill it, empty it, wash it out; It's still a cup that's good for use. When there's nothing at all inside, Its potential is at its peak. What a brilliant skill of being, Bearing it all without a split Sundering its function and form.
Whether tippling, whether toppling, Full of nectar or of poison, A good cup will hold either. Allow me a way to contain The good, the bad, and the water, Our everyday necessity.
I want to be the cup and not The contents; I want to accept That and embrace that in my way As fluid occupies volume. I want to be the cup, and when The time is right I can let go Of anything and everything. If I am spilled I can refill; In the end it's not a big deal. No cup would stress over these things.
The limpkin resembles a toppled vase, Dappled with white spots on its wings And woody down; and flowing out Like a rush of water, its neck, Brilliantly flecked with flashing white, Ends in its beautiful beak that curves Very slightly, harpoonlike, probing Through shallow waters, silt, and clay For submerged mollusks to pick apart. Its legs are fully half its height: Walking sticks deliberate In planting their quadrupod toes.
The limpkin was endangered once, Hunted for its plumage's art. Capricious supply and demand, The vilest trait of humankind, Came close to etching its demise; But thanks is due to providence Whose power turns curses around. When the invasive apple snail Took Florida, the limpkin found An ecosystem it could thrive In again, pulling prodigious Amounts of shells from the freshwater Marshes and creeks; if not for that, I may have never had the chance To see the little limpkin fly Over the ripples of the pond, Gliding down to the verdant banks To trod with twiggy little legs At the shoreline; where dragonflies, Blue and pink, black and red, Glimmering gold and shining jade, Flit across the surface and mate, Coupling in flight and performing Their strange dance on the water's edge.
Perching upon a branch The great gray heron waits. Water scurrying by With schools of tiny fish Who don't know it's above.
Flashes flutter beneath; Silver silhouettes swim Alongside little domes That breach the surface line, Raising curious heads With colorful streaked sides— Pond sliders peeking out.
Across the pond I see A white party of birds. In this wading group, one, Skinny and statuesque, Stands above all the rest. A great white egret waits As tiny ibises Pick and poke through the grass; And two diminutive Snowy egrets play, The one chasing his mate Until she takes to flight, Landing a couple feet Away. He flies in suit, Tracing upon the blue His little yellow pair Of banana peel feet.
Overhead rose a cry Like raspy guiro scrapes; A long shadow appeared: A great grey heron flies, Attracting the branch-sat One, engaging their wings Toward the high treetops. They circle in a pair Once and a second time, Then a third circuit make Before they disappear Within the woody heights.
Sib the sleeper has his bed Angled somewhere between the fanged Grin of fantasy and a gang Of phenomena with a godmasked head. What enigmas of the past Are symbolized by his dreams recast?
And what are the futures he observes In parabolas of his slumber's curves?
A place for my poems 