Deer and squirrel tracks,
crow tracks in fresh snow,
like instruction diagrams on how to dance
the rhumba, samba, salsa and cha cha cha,
give evidence of a street dance last night
under the eye of Old Man Moon.
Must’ve been a good party,
the snow littered with sunflower and walnut shells,
bread crumbs scattered about,
corn cobs and husks littering the ditch.
This morning a few rowdy stragglers
crow from the leafless elms at wood’s edge
when the rising sun polishes their feathers
and opens their eyes,
but the deer have bedded down under the pines
and the squirrels are quiet in their leafy nests,
all having scattered when sheriff coyote
shut the party down at dawn.
My dog sniffs out what went down last night,
looks for leftovers, cleans up the crumbs
while I take notes in the aftermath,
wishing I would have been invited.
Though I can’t dance nimble-footed as a deer,
I can surely sing as swell as a crow.


© by Larry Schug.
Used with the author’s permission.