This

red squirrel telegraphs
its anger, repeatedly,
on the branch above my chair.
With sharp trills, clicks,
and popping squeaks,
it throws it voice
like two squirrels arguing.
So, if you mimic the sound,
smacking kisses on the
back of your hand,
the squirrel stops, is still,
except for its heart,
small furry beat.
Clinging to the bough,
it delivers you its
nutmeg punk face.
Then it runs back,
up the trunk, another tree,
the I'm here now
no here here I see you
here I am again.
It navigates effortlessly
the slim tip of a norway,
dressing it like a slight breeze
to retrieve the pine cone treat.
Should I be the one upset,
jealous at its boldness and grace?
Or how, when it finally gets
what it wants, is silent,
desire buttoned in its mouth?
It races the highway of
branches without ever
touching ground.




About the Author:
Liz Minette lives near Duluth, MInnesota & Lake Superior. She has been writing poems for about 10 years and some publication credits include Fade Poetry Journal, Poetry Super Highway, Third Wednesday & Earth's Daughters. She finds herself employed at a community access television station in downtown Duluth.