On a morning walk.
In a forest, by a creek, stands a tree.
A squirrel rushes down from the top branches of the tree, midway down he stops and stares at me.
He stops and stares at me, as if waiting for something to happen.
I stop in my tracks and stare at him, for I too am waiting for something to happen.
It suddenly dawns on me that this waiting has been with me for a long time now.
The squirrel rushes back up the tree, it’s limbs reaching up toward heaven.
And I sense the vanished world—
thebutterflytales 
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