Small feet, running through the longer grass
Lifted brown fur shivers in the winter air
Roaring things roll by, as if he was never there.
Steel and rubber and flesh rushes to pass
And he waits, for he knows the quiet moment is rare.
But why should he wait so long for his turn, all things being fair?

With a start, a stumbling step, almost a flop
He starts along the long black sea
Running, as the end will finally set him free
A squeal, a stop, loud screaming
One final frantic leap, a hop-
The squirrel cackles madly, carefully preening.