Armed with a Canon’s telefoto,sturdy-soled hikers, and a canteenI march forward, led by sun-crackledcottonwood and half-ground beech.Squirrel hunting in the mountainsmeans tracking under treelines,craning for oak-nestand pine-needled apples.Mid-winter Sol stirs their bellies;groggy they crawl, head first.Aboriginal-headed, the many-pelted,silvered, burnt-oranged, blackedcoat warms me, but wool worksas I trudge white tracks backto build a mighty slide show. […]
dVerse — Poetics 432 — Squirrel Hunting in the Mountains
