A squirrel hurls
itself forth
from a blossom
of the eldest
poplar tree
in the vicinity

to a younger
specimen, digging
into the suppler bark
and scaling the tree
like it’s nothing

until it twitches
and clutches at air,
missing solid matter,
falls ass-backwards
for seventy-five feet,

and is caught
by a hiker who
saw this transpire
and thought about
letting the furball
drop to the ground–
it would have bounced.


Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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