slogging through another winter

...

On the east end of the maple branch
a purple finch whistles loudly at a squirrel
collecting acorns on the ground below.

In a few months, the sugars in the branch
flow back down the trunk and out
into a banged up aluminum bucket.

The little red squirrel will sleep
in a deep hole full of his carefully collected crop

while the finch waits for spring.

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Monkeys: There are no monkeys here. If you're looking for monkeys, go away. Well, actually there are monkeys, but they're of the hairless variety that writes poetry and such. If that's not what you're looking for move along.