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There, by the bank of the Chattahoochee,
drinks a squirrel: clothed in the softest of grays and browns.
He is drinking as if he had learned
--without counsel--that he is in need of
thirst to yearn for water.
His love for the drink has brought him back
without map or guide.
He is there; drinking,
seducing the water with the flicker of his tongue.

The water willingly gives way to his lashes
and he, taking only the pleasures needed,
reflects his image upon the sky.
It is the squirrel in the water
he loves dearly, and he licks it clean.
He, the squirrel, and it, the water
do not know that they are called so.