Motion Itself - March 28 2022

 

Motion Itself

March 28 2022

An unseasonably cold March

but the squirrels can't wait.

After their long winter rest

they have all-at-once emerged

from the trees and burrows

that conceal their clever nests.

Where they've been curled up together

conserving body heat,

steadily depleting

their precious cache of seeds

reserves of fat.

But in surprisingly good condition

after a long hard winter,

and I can only admire

the endurance and skill

of this small flighty animal.

The snow has formed a hard crust,

and I watch

as they flit over the top,

turning sharply

and abruptly stopping and starting

with a hunted creature's

evasive lightness.

Observing these frisky survivors

on such a dazzling day

of blue skies and blinding snow

is an unexpected delight.

It's as if they're seeing the world

for the first time;

as if newly born

and perpetually young.

Perhaps because there are no old squirrels

     . . . but that's another poem

for another day.

They epitomize spring,

soaking up sun,

stretching muscles

that have been dormant for months,

giddy with nimble speed.

And so sure of themselves,

as if untouchable

on that slick smooth surface

they're too light to break.

So like school kids

bursting out for recess

they swarm this playground of snow,

dashing to and fro

for no apparent purpose

other than motion itself.