In Our Furry Cousins

I heard a strange cry this morning;
An insistent cry;
A mournful, catbird-like cry;
It was a young squirrel, sitting on a branch,
Calling to her mortally wounded brother;
Who crouched, groggy with his injuries;
In the middle of the road.

I was able to get the little wounded animal into a box;
With shredded paper in the bottom for litter;
But it rapidly expired.

There was little I could do for our little brother;
With his wonderful fluffy tail;
And his soft creamy underbelly;
His clever paws, and his bright eyes;

I have prayed that God will accept his little soul;
Into God’s everlasting garden;
Where the trees are full of nuts and fruit;
And the ground is soft and forgiving;

And I also pray for the little lonely girl-squirrel;
Whose brother was taken from her so early;
And whom she so clearly mourned.

Something of the unifying life,
Something of God;
Dwells in these our furry cousins;
Our ability to love did not spring from nothing,
But grew, evolved from the little loves of creatures like these.

Somewhere in our ancestral tree,
Dwelt elders not unlike these;
Little lives and little souls;
Who lived, and loved, and leapt;
And who knew what it is to mourn.



Brother Squirrel was laid to rest near his family
beneath the giant oak tree where he lived.