The Clay

   I hold the clay in my hands

It is warm, warmer than my hands.

Its feelings seep out.

I can feel fur

and paws

and tiny

shiny claws

and teeth

But mostly mischief.

A tiny heart beats rapidly

It struggles to get free

I mold as fast as I can,

before I lose the chipmunk's soul

Rich red, black and white streaks, claws, teeth.

The mischief disappears into a hole

to be hardened by fire.