When Squirrels Die

It looks sound asleep

on the path, on its side

but no, its not dozing or resting

it died.

Recent I’d say,

it’s not rotting away.

Fresh off the tree

it looks like to me.

Its squirrel friends, weeping,

know its not sleeping,

their squirrel caps doffed

as they scurry aloft.

And there it will lie

with the world passing by

to furnish a feast

for some hungry wee beast

and myriad miniscule mites to enjoy,

or will it be nudged by a snotty small boy

with a stick

who will pick

and poke

‘til some bloke

in hi-vis, with official approval,

oversees its removal.

The go-to guy

when squirrels die.

It’s only a grey, you might say,

as he wheels it away

on a bed of old leaves

as its squirrel wife grieves.

It’s sad that it’s dead

but I’m glad it’s not red.