Six squirrels on the dead ash and the living pear.
No. Seven. Swish of tails across the branches.
They’ve pulled me from my sick chair to watch them
skip, stop. Fly back up the snowy trunks. White tails!
They bounce on such slender limbs. Now two or three
go high over the barn—and they’re chasing back down.
I’m just cold hands, cough, and white dust for a mind.
The nurse on the phone this morning calls it brain fog.
But no, more like covid snow. I suppose, either
way, weather’s how we track the changes inside.
The snow is done. Squirrels have moved on. No, wait—
a few flakes come dusting down, where one limb shakes.
