Late rising, he again appeared but what brings him here?
A ball of fur scampering across the asphalt driveway,
there are no acorns just withering annuals, two plastic swans
mixed with weeds, we keep them through the seasons,
a one horned mythical cement unicorn well weathered
hard to move and over spreading builder's yews...
Winter miniature rose bushes not seen, connected condominiums,
three, ours in the middle on the smallest lot, no bird feeders,
no fruit bearing trees; for whatever reason it's this fellow's spot...
I guess it's an accident where we live, our abode, not destiny,
what is our home or why we survive, our scampering ground?
Even our forbearers, our children too, some say a plan...
I have doubts, evolution probably, but this fellow scurries,
runs away and I ponder momentarily wishing he'd stay...
2nd October 2005
Author: Roy Schoenberg - Bay Shore, New York.
