Doris Lynch Fast Food a la Squirrel We stain our hands coffee stealing the squirrels' food. Green husks ricochet off the roof sounding their own private artillery. Each shell shelters a curled possibility of tree. Rolling potentiality in our hands, we guess myriad caches nestle the roots of apple trees. Does blood mix underground? Apple-walnut, apple-walnut, apple-walnut: meal mantra for hungry squirrels. At noon cicadas join in, ranting about the gluttony of men. Women too. Let's not forget our crimson apron pockets bulging. Later, after curing and culling, some nuts taste bitter on the tongue. Others, sweet as earth itself sugared with DNA of leaf and limb.

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