A Dozing Squirrel
full of almonds and sesame sticks, warms
his belly on wood of deck. Spread
like a loaf of homemade bread, his eyes
become commas even as his chest expands,
contracts like a blood pressure pump.
Front paws hang over edge as if more cat
than woodland wanderer, tail curled over his back,
temporarily not twitching in anxiety. I stand
at the window, wait to make sure no injury
is preventing his chaotic, convulsive foraging.
I turn away, distracted. When I return,
seconds later, he is gone.
April Salzano has previously published on small creatures on WIZ. Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons. She recently finished her first collection of poetry, for which she is seeking a publisher. Her work has appeared in journals such as Poetry Salzburg, Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, Convergence, The Camel Saloon, Centrifugal Eye, Deadsnakes, Montucky Review, Visceral Uterus and Salome, Poetry Quarterly, and is forthcoming in Writing Tomorrow and Rattle. She also serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press.
Photo by the author.