Chestnuts
Up in the park
you can recover
from the climb:
perch on a bench,
drawing breath
beneath old trees,
shielded from quick
time by their slowness.
Eye-catching, though,
are darting squirrels
making leashed dogs lurch.
It’s chestnut-fall month,
bountiful - stoop
for some shining
ones, pocket a few.
Eye-catching above,
that staring owl
half-camouflaged,
commandingly
poised, threatening
what? Look again -
it’s not real - grey
plastic! - threat merely
to those deceived,
and who are they?
Are they not welcome
to forage and hoard
against the coming
unstoppable cold?
September’s stalled:
clouds have stopped still
all day hereabouts
while time prepares
its next push - owl
or no owl - tolerates
these squirrels, this
old human with dog,
their nostalgic
harvest of chestnuts.
Max in Seattle
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