The two squirrels are close
They follow
Jumping around in the grass
Their bushy tails giving away their next move
A fly drops by on my notebook
A collage of red and black fill the top right corner
The squirrels have gone and a robin approaches
Seeing me, it flies away alarmed.
Its cry calling for help, shelter, or something in-between
I wonder why all these relatives run.
We are not different, they and I.
We have hearts, brains, and feet.
Lungs, blood and faces
But to them we are murders of generations
Erasers of time and dreams
To us we are but another face in the crowd
A machine doomed to destroy but never to accept.