Greyed sky swaths the air in gloom:
half-melted snow runnelled from runoff
makes the land look patchy,
unfinished; grass shows darkly.
I shove my hands deeper into my pockets,
aware of an ache in my shoulders
from the weight of books and worry.
A squirrel starts over the scraps
if winter, tail-tip held still, even
as it bounds to the base of a tree.
It sits up, stands tall, listening.
Tail flicks and then it continues,
leaping with tiny claws
up the bark of the tree
It takes a moment to realize
Copyright myself. I scribbled this last semester and only just transcribed and fiddled. Enjoy.