The wind goes into the backyard pines,
a long grammar of sighs,
and comes out needle-sharp and shouting.
Way off in a bush, the cry
of a small bird, like a squeaky door,
What stillness it takes
to move out of oneself.
I sit on the deck in my zero-
and watch a stop-motion squirrel scope me
as he tacks
beneath the feeder, tense
He strips a hazelnut like a lathe,
pins me with his bitter stare,
then strips another,
and he will not scare.