Last night, I came home with three baby squirrels. Mine are older than the one in the picture.
Their eyes are open but they are still mighty small. I feed them four times a day. I guess you might call me a foster mom. Here's another poem from Howard Norman's Swampee Cree Indian poems. On my top ten list of all time favorite books but long out of print.
One time I wished myself in love.
I was the little squirrel
with dark stripes.
I climbed shaky limbs with fruit for her.
I even swam with the moon on the water
to reach her.
That was a time little troubled me.
I worked all day to gather food
and watched her sleep all night.
It is not the same way now
but my heart still sings
when I hear her
over the leaves.