Splooting

 (I had observed this squirrel-behavior over the years--when they lie on their bellies to cool off--but the term "splooting" was new to me.)

Yes, squirrel, your body's
covered in thick gray-brown fur.
You don’t have a word for summer
but your body does. All day,

you run up and down trees,
driving upward with thick thighs,
clinging downward with sharp
fore-claws. One tree

holds your nest, where you
go to check on the kids. Otherwise,
you search madly for nuts,
hold them in your mouth

(oh, jaw-ache), bury
them for later, forget where
you buried them, search, smell
them out, dig them up, move them,

on and on, dawn til dusk.
Sometimes you stop for a snack,
and chew through a hard nut-shield
(oh, more jaw-ache) and eat,

all the while glancing
anxiously around for killers
including the beastly Tall Ones
whose fur could be any color,

who drive great hideous clouds
which have murdered and
flattened friends you mourn.
When the heat wears you down

and your jaws and legs ache,
you find cool grass, lie down,
spread your arms and legs,
and, ah, let the lovely chill

pass through your belly-fur into
your body. Squirrel, you have
earned this a hundred times over--
this rest, your time of splooting.

hans ostrom 2022

At a Reservoir of Inquiry

Warm winter day at
a California university:
this one's origins lie
in agriculture. Between
academic terms, the campus
is deserted. Squirrels

maintain their studious
consumption of acorns
raining from valley oaks
that have mused over
millions of scholars
down the decades.

One squirrel runs
up the steps of the Success
Center, which is closed.
The current campus
populace will flood in
soon, filling the reservoir
of inquiry as feudal
stupidity reigns on the
other side of the continent.



hans ostrom 2018

Misbehaving Animals

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Animals Misbehave

Some frogs drive by at dusk in a green car.
One of them gets out, puts a continuous-loop
broadcasting device under a fern, hits "play,"
gets back in the car, and off the frogs go
to drink and laugh at a moist cocktail lounge.
Meanwhile, I listen to a "frog" croak all night.

The gray squirrel has become so large eating
seed put out for birds that he can barely
fit into his fur. "Are you sure you're not
drinking beer" I ask him one morning. He stares
at me, keeps chewing, and finally says,
"Yes, I'm sure."

The crows have contacted a realtor and are
going to offer to buy our house. We're going
to listen to the offer, out of respect, which
crows demand. Our neighbor is trying to trap
a raccoon that's eating decorative fish. The
raccoon is a known felon. It never checks in

with its parole officer. It's also an
escape-artist. I didn't have the heart
to tell my neighbor this. Under the earth,
worms live a lovely life. I assume they
don't writhe unless we dig them up.


Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

What He Knows

What I Know

Squirrels scratch the roof tonight.
I didn't know they could be nocturnal.
My wife's asleep. I know she's weary.
I've survived life thus far. I know I'm
a remnant. Now the furnace, an old
smoker in the basement, wakes
and coughs, exhales through creaking
ducts. I know I need to change the filter.

I hear a car careening down the alley.
It crunches a trash-can, keeps going.
I know the driver gunning the engine is
drunk, will pull out onto an avenue. I don't
know if I'll hear a siren soon. I expect to.

Near me a gray cat groans in sleep.
I don't know what cats see when they
dream. God, if you're there, good for you.
Good for me, too. The rent is due in ten
days, and I can't afford to get sick.
That's what I know.


Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom