The squirrel of I Ching, incongruous and slow
(for a squirrel (from the cold)) walks briskly on the snow.
‘A grey squirrel in a snow bank,’ says Lord Flea.
‘If he cannot find his acorns I will freeze.’
Flying foreign sky rats, cold too, coo in pidgin,
‘If he finds his cache, will he let us cage a smidgen?’
The snow crust breaks. The I Ching squirrel chutes through
to his larder stashed with acorns. He eats two.