The Squirrel

The squirrel that from a car, perhaps a hawk,
flees headlong out of fear
displays the fright
that is our own experience;

at noon and night;
the dodge to left, then right,
the race to trees,
the only place of safety.

Then there were those
who had no trees to climb
or lacked the claws
by which to grip the bark,

and so must run
from cave to cave
or dig, rig shelters out of reeds
and skins and snow.

These were our recent cousins,
the ones from which we came,
the first few dozens
who cut down trees, built houses,

said they were free,
but still felt near
the fear of the unknown,
unseen, but here,
our closest of companions,
the one most dear.