The Squirrel Takeover, A Poem by Chris Russell

I was watching a squirrel run around the tree out front. Personally, his spastic furriness and overall spasmodic disposition reminded me of my grandmother’s hyperactive eyebrows, which she’d raise and let fall each time she farted midst conversation. He stopped and looked at me with that eye and I could almost feel him inside my head squirreling around. “What do you want?” I said. “I’m going to cut your world into tiny, colorful pieces and then paint a kind of prophecy with them,” he said. I didn’t feel very welcomed. He threw a nut at my face and I ducked. I picked up the shovel and attempted to pound him flat with the back of it. I ran back to where his nut landed and picked it up. I threw it at him more to prove a point than anything else. He jumped off to the side and watched it roll over the embankment into the river. “You sonofabitch!” He said. He made a move. I stuck my chest out and shimmied toward him. He sideways galloped toward me at a 45, then gestured to end me with his paw. “Counting coup, huh?” I said. “I’ll stop by when you’re sleeping,” he said. Thus, I decided I’d let him have his victory. I put myself tail between my legs, but still held my ground. Which was when I noticed other squirrels coming onto my lawn. They’d won this hand. I thought it best I went back inside, so that’s what I did. I could take one or two, but not this many.

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