`two gluttonous squirrels,
waiting their turn, wary and fat --
last of the corn harvest
April 22, 2024
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4 comments:
What's the matter with you? Don't you like bunnies?
Knowing their popularity, this is not the last corn poem, however - those two little guys would take one kernel at a time, watching each other as they took turns, and plant them so daintily, about a half inch deep at the edge of the grassy space behind the townhome.
It took them all day to deal with a few cobs worth, the kernels cut free, otherwise they would run off with an entire husk and leave it somewhere to rot before they'd enjoy it all.
They ate as they worked, their bellies getting larger and the progress slower, a task more daunting since they were not friends or relatives apparently. And once they were done? The battle ensued until they gave up, exhausted, with neither the clear winner for the territory. I heard them just now.
Why can't we just get along?
You might mistake them for muskrats or otters, they are so stuffed! Oak trees round the back and black walnuts, three of them. Raccoons were here, but were chased off by a bad man. All men are bad in their eyes, I reckon.
One more thing - haven't seen Luce or Harry for some time, but a kitten rabbit, all grown up, comes round infrequently. Don't know her name. the others we know on sight, and they know us - we are the Carrot People.
Birds, you ask? Oh, yes. Nuthatches, messy rascals, throw seed down for the natives, woodpeckers of three types, blue jays and cardinals. Feels odd there are no crows. I think not. If there were they'd have that country accent. Not like the city mob, always yelling at us and each other. I'd stare them down sometimes, or speak to them so they'd listen. Old white feather seemed most interested and would soften his talk to get my attention. Bob was a Navajo carpenter I met in the Bakken. I showed him the feather in my Texas hat, a #10, you could drop a rock on it it was so tough, that whitefeather had dropped at my door. I thanked him, of course. bob studied it some, said it was good medicine. ward off cancer, he said. His hat was# 4, supple and pliant in the wind and rain, a modest brim just enough to keep the sun from his eyes. None of them crew had seen blue eyes before, but I didn't feel uncomfortable. I never met any Navajo, knowing only Dakota and Lakota people, and my second son, of Chippewa heritage. He has grown into a good man and father, and his children are gentle souls. I hope I helped with that. I tried.
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