Sunday, November 8, 2015


                    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.