This is probably my only poem about the natural world.
It's called, "Least Weasel".
"A theory goes that an artist handles
heartache by making art.
Here's what the least weasel does.
He carts home God's mockups, feet, spare tails,
and makes a woodland scarecrow.
In all respects, the piece is his.
The detail of the forty eyes, the scars, the excess.
O tiny Rex of woes, least weasel, give him wide arc."