water in the porcelain
bowl hanging on a chain
that’s hooked from a nail,
driven in a tree. Doesn’t see

the grey squirrel
scurrying for a nut. Or hear his
scratching claws breaking bits
of bark off.  He’s kicking his feathers

up in the bath. Sitting back I
laugh at his reverie. He’s painted
golden by the sun, a treasure
to see.  As he frolics, a red carinal

joins him. Fireworks of drops shoot
off from their tails. Snapping a picture
to frame the scene. Leaning forward,
I glean a smile. Bubbles rising in

the air. The water level
dropping. The bowl’s
bare. It will be filled to the top, once
I push my *** off the chair.