Composed Upon Seeing An Idle Squirrel by Greg L. Anderson

There you stand, oh furry one, so tranquil.
While your fellow furballs scurry around
Taking fresh food to their homes underground
You care not, and let them do as they will.
Your concern is your spiritual fill
And though the air is rife with ambient sound
You hold your meditative pose, spellbound
Until the gentle breeze finally turns chill

Complete days slip by as you search your soul
That works out for now, but what will you do
Upon the first blast of winter's fell breath
When you shelter in your cavernous hole
And everyone has food except for you.
Will you resign yourself to hungry death?