To a Scavenging Squirrel, Shaya Bock

Stretched out lean, you swipe

With your forearm. Marking

By chance, tilling your trail through the pine

needle straw; sifting for any stray

seed. “As if to sow, you push

Under the straw, sniffing to thieve

what you cannot find;

What your own eyes, darting, leave

Hidden from the mind.