In the End it is Love
The squirrels leapt from tree to tree
shaking autumn leaves down on me.
I gazed upward at their antics
and their occasional panics.
They were not afraid they would fall
but that hawks and eagles might call.
Sometimes i saw them sitting up
eating blooms of a buttercup.
Ah, yes, these gray squirrels of ours
liked to nibble blooming flowers.
I’ll bet that you never knew that,
or thought they were only a rat.
I love these furry, bushtail friends
and this is where this poem ends.

Walt Abbott–8-9-08