small battles


The squirrels are gathering acorns from the oak that stretches over our back porch. I'll catch them perched on the back railings, suspiciously close to my dying yarn, nibbling.  I worry about one stealing a skein for a nest; I catch them out back and wave my arms, yelling "Aeeeeaaaaaw, aeeeeeaaaaw," like a madwoman. Oh, what the neighbors must think.

Every so often, they'll drop an acorn on the metal awning by my studio and scare the hell out of me. This one landed on the porch, between drying racks, like a warning. It's a war, me and the squirrels.

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