In the season of squirrel suicide,
the leaves are a different color green;
the air takes on a cleaner taint
with just a smoky tinge of fear.
Jim says they are without volition,
responding to deep genetic desires;
yet, amid their hesitant stutter steps
they stop, and stare holding my eye
as if to say to us all: yes, it is time.
If they truly are without reason,
why then do they reverse themselves,
and seem to fling their soft bodies
with such spastic martyrdom
into my way and its destruction?
(Revised/reclaimed from memory, 1982/2015)
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