The squirrels make it rain again
The morning after the storm
Has abandoned pieces of itself
On the crooked fingers of the forest.
The squirrels sashay
On the evidence of last night’s violence,
Tears falling to the decaying wood floor.
The squirrels scamper and stumble in the quiet
Like tourists in cathedrals and children over gravestones.
While I whisper my prayers for those drowning in the Flood,
The squirrels make it rain again.
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