Rifle asleep in its case under the seat,
he reads me through the windshield –
winter coat at dawn alone, calves
too big to bring him down – now,
squirrel towns busy cleaning burrows
after rain. Free in February to fill
the seams, he reinvents our deserted
homesteads as we move closer to more
comfort and speed – front door jam
his scent post, our rusty bucket, home
for mice. He lopes the other way,
laughs over his shoulder, going back.
drycrikjournal 