Way up in the greening trees,
Caressed by a light spring breeze,
The fox squirrel sits upon a branch
As if he was in a deep trance.
My searching lens locks onto him
There upon his lofty limb
With acorn locked between his teeth
And me there on the ground beneath.
He thinks I don't see him there
So still, way up in the air
Behind that tiny little twig
Where, to me, he looks mighty big
Covered with his winter fat;
Just another tree rat.
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