By A.S. Coomer
Been watching this squirrel every morning for a week now. The little bastard has no sense of purpose: scurries here then there then sits mute and still in the middle of the goddamn street. Lately, he’s been climbing up into the bare, frail arms of the burning bush outside my window. He’s there now. Just swaying with his displaced weight and the whims of the wind.
Crazy little bastard.
Is he prepared for the cold weather ahead? Doubtful. Little fucker’s just watching the January clouds make their languid way on to someplace else like he’s got no care in the world.
I’ll take the persona of this Nature-watcher over Wordsworth’s slumberous diurnal courser any day of the week.
Another great read. Luckily, this narrator was kind enough not to let the squirrel be. Plenty of others may have shot the little pest.