The Existential Reality of the Squirrel

A friend called from California. She said, “I want to come back
 as a cat.” Silence settled between us. Then I responded, “I wish
I’d been born a squirrel.” I knew she was confused by my statement.
Who wouldn’t be? She laughed a little laugh, asking, “Why on earth

a squirrel?” At that point I needed a lectern in a dark hall packed to
the rafters with devotees of the squirrel ethos. “Ladies and Gentlemen,”
I’d say, “Is there a finer sight than noble squirrels galloping across black
wire above humanity, banging about dented and deformed landscapes?” 

“No!” the mob yelled. “Imagine the soft wind whistling through your
shiny fur as you dash across the sky, wild and free, with nothing but nuts
on your mind. Contemplate the joyous simplicity of such a life. Think
of not wanting anything in this great universe. Are you with me?” “

Yes!” they thundered. “For what squirrel sees a psychiatrist, kneels before
the priest, punches a time card, or demands purpose of life’s mystery?
None! No, friends, the squirrel, in rent free stasis, worries not about inflation,
dental hygiene or oil changes. It sails high on nature’s steady wing, pure 

and brave, content with existence and its place in all things. Sure, sometimes
they get flattened by speeding cars, shot by shotguns, or ripped apart by
malnourished, mad dogs but, generally speaking, the squirrel’s lot is one to be envied by creature great and small. Long live the squirrel!”

“All power to the squirrel!” my loyal lunatics roared. 

(for Linda Chiochios)

I’ve noticed many old men
grumble and talk loudly
about whatever piece
of nonsense is blowing

through their fragile,
failing minds. Oddly,
I’ve become even more
quiet than I was long

ago, as there’s nothing
much to say, really,
since Czeslaw Milosz
and Ruth Stone and all

others have already said
it and certainly much
better than I ever could.
So, I sit by the window,

staring at the evening
sky with reverence and
longing, with a great
deal of longing, actually.