LATE NOVEMBER IN A FIELD

Today I am walking alone in a bare place,

And winter is here.

Two squirrels near a fence post

Are helping each other drag a branch

Toward a hiding place; it must be somewhere

Behind those ash trees.

They are still alive, they ought to save acorns

Against the cold.

Frail paws rifle the troughs between cornstalks when the moon

Is looking away.

The earth is hard now,

The soles of my shoes need repairs.

I have nothing to ask a blessing for,

Except these words.

I wish they were

Grass.