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Tall sentinel pines saluting the morning moon,
The higher branches backlit by the western sun. Swathed in the cozy odors of whiteoak acorn trees,
The young jumping branch to branch for fun.
The mother squirrel teasing her young,
Coaxing them out of their refuge of nest.
Reluctantly they ease treacherously out on thin limbs, Bit by bit, then a brief needed rest.
Groping and grabbing with each movement,
As their fragile bodies shivered and curled.
They eased with abandon and caution,
In this their brave, new world.
Puzzlement passes to pained compassion,
An inate need to continue their quest.
Forces them onward with abandon,
In their wild fashion without rest.
A sudden gust of morning wind comes,
Sending the first newborn downward.
Down and down, toward a bloody impact,
A staunch reminder to her brother to get back on track.
The wounded day left an arterial stain,
All across the westernly sky.
Maybe a sign that some might live,
While others die.
A sign of life before death,
Or maybe just the time for nature's purple.
Maybe a sign of the times.
And life before death, comes full circle.
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