Death Amongst The Undergrowth

Silent, dead squirrel
lay on the forest floor
nestled on a bed of sappy
pine needles.

Slumbers to the tempo
of restless woodpeckers
perforating notches
in the flesh of living wood.

Rousing sordid glares
from the amiable critters
playing hide-and-seek
under the ink-wash canopy.

Fearing the despondent ruckus
of the birds' chiseling beak:
mistaken for the hollow wail
of chainsaw klaxons.

Tiny squirrel, no more.
Leaves fall from tall sequoias
to cover the sullen carcass
ripe with rot and decay.

With not but a rose petal
to shroud its withered face
from the pouring rain
of this nightly storm.