The trees; they Squeak. Vignette. 9.7.23.

I don’t know where the

little guy is

he could still be hiding but

out my window gap I hear a panicked squeak,

then another

and then I am slamming palms to glass, then running away.

Then I am outside and there at

at least five

cries; they come from all which ways I am twirling

like a Prima.

They watch on like I am

crazy but there are

ten cries

or more now squeaking

from above the trees, mocking me

from within the bushels and reeds. My

fingers plug my ears but they are squeaking

their way past my eardrums,

they are yelling,

screaming out for me,

bouncing about my brain. I let go

and it is

silent. Like life was never unlike

always. But I hear them

now,

Still. I hear them cry.

They cry. They cry for me.

Though I have done all that

I can. I can

do no more.