By Teresa Keenan
His deep-seated anger
reflects in his silence.
One eye perched against a color.
Black invisible thoughts/ decoding the sky.
Once I saw him diving
towards me, craving more air
under his wings, but I moved
out of the squirrel body.
I felt no pain
when claws landed.
Just a gush of air.
His dizzy shadow passes
over when it’s not reflected
against an old piece of pottery.
I know he’s reading the inscriptions. Irritable
little lines on clay.
