He leapt into a nearby
pile of leaves and
I wondered if that was
the part in him — the practiced
and programmed part
that runs in fear
at the sight of sharp claws
and talons — or
in my case,
18 speeds and a strong steel frame.
This part of him was passed down
by generations of squirrels
that died minutes sooner than he did,
having stood inches closer
to their assailants.
And naturally,
I feel the guilt a larger,
not-hungry creature would feel.
so I try to be friendlier,
and pass by slowly
as if to say I mean no harm.
But I can imagine
some ghostly ancestor of his
floating at his side
shaking their head and
wagging a finger — if that’s what you’d call it,
not again
not this time
And as much as I wished
I could get closer to my
bite-size neighbor, I did
have to admire this bit
of instinctual genius
and how my bike
may have appeared as
a stealthier and more
evolved version of
whatever animal hunted his species.
He peeks his head out of
the leaves and I am already
too far to do any harm,
and we go on about our lives —
descendants of former enemies —
as if it’s just a normal Tuesday for us both.
