Again that squirrel is chirring from his tree
Complaining about something down below,
Perhaps a cat, his long-time enemy,
Or could it be an owl, another foe?
Whatever irritant that makes him bray
And cluck vociferously disturbs the yard—
But wait—that raucousness has gone away
Which our Sunday serenity so marred.
There’s barking down the block, and now a plane
Descends towards its allotted runway north
Of here, and none of this helps me regain
Composure such as I need to bring forth
My morning’s verse, distracted by all this,
My Muse confused, my poem gone amiss.