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This is probably my only
poem about the natural world.

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It's called, "Least Weasel".

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"A theory goes that
an artist handles

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heartache by making art.

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Here's what the
least weasel does.

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He carts home God's
mockups, feet, spare tails,

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and makes a woodland scarecrow.

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In all respects,
the piece is his.

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The detail of the forty
eyes, the scars, the excess.

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O tiny Rex of woes, least
weasel, give him wide arc."

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