Upturned

I really have no love for squirrels.
Well, maybe the rambunctious red ones,
those feisty fur balls with ear tufts
like the tips of little flames,
puckish, bold, and just a tad wicked,
the Nutkin Beatrix Potter knew,
chittering and dancing in the face of imminent peril.

But the gray squirrels in my neighborhood,
minds addled from nibbling at lead paint
peeling from rotting shutters,
are more menacing than their gingersnap brethren.

Destroyers of pumpkins in fall, wreaths in winter,
geraniums and begonias in spring and summer,
ravenous for ripping and uprooting.
Even in burying acorns for a later meal,
they leave the yard riddled with holes.

No⁠–⁠no love at all for these rodent wrecking crews.

I am surprised, then, when I see your soft white belly
upturned, tiny paws and bottlebrush tail
flat and still against the road,
and feel something other than hate.

Indelible at Dawn

In early morning, I see the skunk⁠–⁠
ball of black-and-white whimsy,
sniffing the ground, looking for grubs
with singular focus, unaware of my gaze.

She pauses her culling of beetle and root,
flashes her pink tongue, tasting dew in the air.
I step out into the backyard without a sound
and do not close the door.

She wobbles my way, grazing my right foot,
pauses, then turns her head toward the open door.
Does her keen nose detect coffee brewing in the kitchen?
Do I wish her away or welcome her inside?

Strange angel! I know you cannot stay for me⁠–⁠
but, oh, how the day brightens as you
scuttle along the side of the house,
a white streak indelible at dawn.