Brian Swann

A SQUIRREL

             pursued by a hawk
   dashes across the lawn, up a tree, sits
chittering until the bird leaves and he
   climbs down headfirst, hesitant, but soon
in a chase, bounces off tree trunks, cuts
   acute angles, balances on the rim of a garbage can,
triumphant with discarded crust, posing atop
   do not feed the wildlife here in this
manicured park where squirrels are as wild
   as it gets, indigene spirits of survival,
so vivid they get me thinking Cezanne’s
   “little sensations,” the way each day
the world met his regard, fearless of error,
   precise, he with no need of eraser multiplying
his tracks of the this, all its passionate sameness
   on Mont Sainte-Victoire, as now these beings,
precise as artifacts, name-tail curled over
   backs, concise epigrams, neat as haiku,
exact as if etched on the caves at Altamira,
   Lascaux, Chauvet, yet not important enough
to include with auroch or wisent, and here
   they are on the cave of my skull for what
they are or aren’t, might or might not be,
   fronting the full sensation of is.

BRIAN SWANN is the author of the poetry collection Imago (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2023). In 2024, MadHat Press published Ya-Honk! Goes the Wild Gander.