One Squirrel by Janie Hoffman

It was February that day
that only one gray squirrel
came out to play;
he was sleek as midnight,
with a great plumed tail
and his eyes were the dark
beads of childhood games
he didn't dig under
the walnut tree
or scramble up
the bird feeder pole
to snatch at finch seed
like most of his kind
he was graceful, ungrounded
as a cloud, his jumps were pirouettes
and when he landed
his tail never touched ground
he sprang from tree limb
to fence and back again,
spinning like a top
he could have cocooned
in the woodpile, the cracked
trunk of the willow tree
or anywhere safer, warmer
but he just wanted
to dance, his tracks
criss-crossing like scattered
stitches sewn into the snow
going nowhere but back to him
and I thought he was the fish
I always dreamed
of catching just so I could
throw him back
as he leaped from tree to ground
a creature so unafraid
of the coldness
any human could know


Janie Hoffman, Vancouver, Canada

The Fox of Yellowstone by Janie Hoffman

I am impressed by this red fox
chewing on a chocolate bar wrapper
in the parking lot of Yellowstone.
He's long like a corgi but not so wide,
cute and compact, and two minivans
full of backpacks and children
also watch as the sun pulls down
the October day and we do not even think
about how we should scold the careless
tourist who left the candy wrapper because
we are more grateful than the fox
who has given up raising his eyes
to look at us. Calm, he chews
and licks and does not even squint
when we turn our headlights
and motors on and yellow rays
and untuned engines spill
into the night. We leave
him to his prize and privacy
as we need to chase down
our own food and hotels.
He never looks up and fades
away in our rear view mirrors,
dignified red banner licking
chocolate off foil.




Janie Hoffman