February 4 - February 8 Week 58/72
my dad used to shoot them
and mark their passing with a penciled
hash mark on the inside wall of the garage
I remember standing nearby out in the sun
barely chest-high staring up wonderingly
as he tallied up his count for the year
to me this was a mysterious and unknown
sliver of him that he would take to his grave
actions incongruent and shocking
as if the loud crack of a gun were
to reverberate right now through snow
silently stacking itself on branches
empty bird house roofs and the backs
of grey squirrels safely eating beneath
the line of bird feeders as I recall how he
patiently taught me to read the sky each season
for signs of an approaching storm
The damn feeders are empty again.
The birds can't fly as
Fast as the fear they feel
I thought I shot them
All yesterday
Today there seems to be
Twice as many
Damn squirrels they
Are a nuisance.
I prefer birds.
Things dad would say
Then "bang" got him
I'm starting to think of squirrels as manifestations of myself. They are practically a blanket out on the little granite/garden area just outside the French doors. They devour every shell peanut I put out for the crows, who seem now to prefer Meow Mix. They are ravenous, speedy, never sitting still. Little red squirrels, chipmunks, and huge gray squirrels. Most of our birds fly overhead to their feeders, but the crows hang out above it all, on branches in the tall oaks, and must kind of wonder about what exactly to do.
In warmer months, Waynno traps squirrels and chipmunks (they destroy the yard and gardens), and he takes them to a place across the river where ("they" say) they…